7 comments/ 49927 views/ 37 favorites Fleshware Requiem Book 01 By: xxxecil A word to literotica readers, Be warned, if you're expecting a typical XXXecil story; you will be in for a surprise. That's not what this is. I've tainted my usual smut with drama, action, danger, characterization, all kinds of philosophical reflection, and social commentary. Yes, there's sex. Quite a bit of sex. And thinking about sex when no one's having sex -- or fighting for their lives, or souls. Fleshware Requiem is a pretentious novella that rises above my usual depravity. For those that want more of my usual fare, go back and read 300 million again. Here it comes, not like a typical XXXecil story. I warned you! -- COPYRIGHT © 2011 ISBN: 978-1-4657-2979-8 * A CARNAL OBJECTIVE I waited, muscles knotted into anxious cords, with a steel crowbar ready to kill. I heard her footsteps just beyond the door; and I knew the exact position her head would first appear as she passed the threshold into the lab. I knew where to swing for maximum damage. I adjusted my sweaty grip upon the smooth steel; as my heart pounded beneath my immaculate white lab-coat that bulged slightly near the top from my broad shoulders. That had been her idea. Did she actually find me... handsome in it? Would that even matter to her? In reality it was my nerves I truly needed to grapple. Not to mention the familiar stiffening that occurred within my dark cargo pants. As it always did; when she drew near -- or when I even thought about her drawing near. My body could sense her approach with an alacrity that seemed to defy the conventional five-senses. As my breathing accelerated; a thin sweaty trickle ran from my tousled, mahogany head of hair, past my sharp brow ridge. I would tell myself, in the other iterations of this identical moment that had occurred so often these past months, that the Hatred was my true lover. Not this nemesis of living Desire that I forced myself to despise. The Hatred was my mantra. I would have at least this one, small victory. This one, petty blow towards personal liberty. And there would be many, many more to come; so I hoped. She was responsible for all of it; this laboratory of horrors. The experiments on the cadavers, the imprisonment; the perverse form of inverted slavery that had slipped over the others that had accompanied me to this refuge of shame and pleasure. The vile machines, the preserved flesh surrounding me on cold worktables scattered throughout the chamber where I labored with futility. And the windows of course. Bullet-proof, triple-layered, reinforced anti-shatter glass. As useless as my struggles had been so far, hitting those windows with the intent of breaking them would prove even more futile. Actually looking at what lay beyond them was out of the question. If I wanted to entertain even the illusion of survival, of a future. Everything that I looked upon in the workroom before me served as a stark reminder of why she needed to die. One perversion upon another, leading off on an unwholesome tangent of abominations long past the territories of behavior and innovation that any man had business exploring. Her latest dictates seemed as if she were compounding the degradation and madness that had slipped over me -- and the other survivors like a tarnished burial shroud. And it was all so senseless; She didn't really need me for any of the unholy experiments. What was the real reason she kept me around? It wasn't that I was smarter than her, could do anything she was incapable of. Contemplating the possibilities as to why I was even here, why she allowed me this... this... research only served to deepen my dread. My lonely resolve, to never stop until I had killed her was soon accompanied by the merciless certainty that these depraved inventions she demanded removed any possibility of pity. The pity that I longed to give her. The reason why I hadn't acted sooner was not overwhelming force on her part; despite the evil of the experiments, prior to now my own feelings where the true enemy. More to the point, my own lusts. But I had reached a tipping point. Or so I hoped. I was at peace with the violence I intended to inflict on the one I hated as much as I craved. As usual, I felt the first stirrings before she was even through the door. As always, it started as a tingling in my gut. Like circus-cannon butterflies hopped up on meth. Then, the floating sensation. I had once read a neurology article that studied the brains of people in the throes of the deepest, most prayerful religious experiences, across cultures. An uplifting sensation; the part of the brain that oriented the body's perception of position in space was suppressed. It was Immersive; It was sublime. It was Her. October 19th, 2076 One Year Ago Must be a trick of the light. Perhaps the glare. Or the bones. Or the death. It got to all of us eventually. I wanted to be the voice of reason; the sane one out of this accidental band of twelve men that did NOT see the apparition. I wanted to be the one to tell them all that they were letting hunger, paranoia, and superstition cloud the reasonable answers that were there for the taking if one has a cool head. But that wasn't true. Amidst the crumbling ruination of now-skeletal guts of the urban corpse that had once been St. Louis, I too saw the Woman in White scampering through broken cinder-blocks and pock-marked pavement. She was climbing, as if to get a higher vantage point. She nimbly mounted a smooth curvature of silvery metal that had once been part of the now-exploded landmark Arch to reach a nearby half-collapsed brick wall that formed a staircase profile from the irregularity of its disintegration. What was she looking for? At? If the Woman in White was looking towards us; she would have seen an almost unbearably grim gaggle of desperate men. Most of us had only been able to scrounge-up old 20th century gas-masks, luckily equipped with modern, sub-molecular filters. But most of our weapons were primitive slug-throwers from that era as well. The woman, or indeed any observer would not have been able to see our faces beyond the mosquito-like countenance of our fully-enclosed respirators. She would have seen that the rest of our bodies were covered by a motley assemblage of padded garments, scuba-diving wetsuits, and thickly wrapped leathers. All with as many pockets-within-pockets as possible; as your basic slug-thrower gun only had a tenth the ammo capacity of a modern pulse weapon. Every bullet precious, and needed. No such thing as a spare clip. That and food. What there was of it. Oddly, actually getting enough food was often less of a problem than one might have expected in the apocalyptic wasteland that the country -- and the world found themselves in. My band had actually survived the eight years since E-day almost entirely on pre-packaged, processed food-stuffs preserved to last for the long haul. But actually eating it was a whole 'nother ball game. Not that all of us that started out eight years ago were still alive. Even though the woman perched on the broken wall couldn't really make out our faces; just the fact that we were walking, wearing clothes, and even bothering with gas-masks spoke volumes; or at least it should have -- to any survivor. "Sal; we gotta do another Endo check." McConnaught demanded, his voice filtered by his mask into a hollow rasp. Because of her? Because you see some fallout shelter headcase that finally decided living underground wasn't living? Just because she finally snapped and decided on one last breath of 'fresh' air, " I actually made finger-quotes. " - that we need to waste resource testing for T-levels that we all know are too-damn high?" I argued. "Eh, not like rat skins are in short supply." muttered Garland, our sort-of-doctor. Well, not really a doctor; he had a been a Medical Technologist before E-day; that was the best we could hope for. "It just takes time for the endothelial cell cultures to get started is all." "No reason to waste that time when we could be making more progress towards this... Preserve-place they talk about on Short-wave." I insisted. "Let her be. She's gotta be infected already. No contact is the best contact." "Maybe... maybe Sal's wrong; Maybe she's the living proof?" said Cleary, as he refuted me, widening his stance as if ready to give chase. "What, of a cure? Ehhh... been down this road too many times." grumbled Garland with a dismissive shake of his gas-masked head. "The only labs big enough for any real hope were the first ones hit!" I snarled; reminding myself time and again of the cause of our hopelessness grated on my already fraying nerves. "You're thinkin' with your little head again." I accused. But Cleary was like that; done a dime in Federal lockup for sexual assault back in 67' Not someone I wanted watching my back; even after all these years of him doing just that. Besides, he could do tricks with a car-engine that had to be seen to be believed. As it was now though, I suppose we couldn't claim to be much better. The real reason, besides all the rationalizations and survival-based excuses about why we wanted to get to this Preserve, was the buzz we'd heard that there were women there. It really was that simple; Cleary was just less shy about admitting it. Now it seemed, we wouldn't have to shoot, hot-wire, and suffer our way to Wyoming; it seemed that the rarely-acknowledged object of our quest was right in front of us. She seemed healthy enough. From a distance, at least. Some kind of white, flowing gown. Smooth, perfect skin. Not a tumor in sight. That was refreshing. No trouble breathing, no crippling pain. But no respirator. No gas mask. That lingering, long-suffering hope for hope itself tickled the edges of my consciousness again; after being so long buried. "Hold up," cautioned Tannerman, our best sniper. "Maybe she can be our Endo test. Just give it a minute." "No.... It's been eight fuckin' years..." rasped Nailer, our wilderness-survival expert. " I won't... won't...." he never finished his sentence. He didn't really need to; we all knew -- and felt what he did. Having to perform a biochemical test to know if was safe to feel the sunshine on your face... Never feeling the wind in your hair. It wouldn't take much of an excuse to say 'to hell with all the precautions'. Like Nailer did. It took a moment to struggle with his tamper-proof straps and seals, but far too quickly, he ripped off his mask to breathe in great gusts of forbidden, unfiltered air. And to give chase. His stringy, once-blond matted tangle skewed in several directions as his face, and wild eyes freed themselves at last. "It's alright.... I'm okay... and I want more... I want.. Her." And with a hungering hiss, he set off in the direction of the Woman in White. We were stunned for a moment. McConnaught just wanted to expose a sealed plastic sheet sandwiching a growth of preserved rat-skin to test the toxin levels, but Nailer had volunteered himself out of his own frustration. Not surprising; he'd been a park ranger, and sometimes-hunter before... it must seem like a cruel joke to travel from city to countryside, forced to seal himself off from the natural world in such an unnatural way. Also not surprising; no one else followed his lead with regards to our respirators. And he had snapped. He seemed to be breathing just for the sake of breathing as he lunged towards the Woman in White. She must have noticed us, and made up her mind concerning our trustworthiness, because she slid down the Arch fragment and took to running herself. Odd, those looked like high-heels she was wearing; but she was able to move with a graceful speed to impress a ballerina. In moments, it had become a full-blown chase. Some of us were going after Nailer, to try and talk some sense into him while there was still time; if there was still time. Nailer was chasing the woman. And the rest of the men chased Nailer to prevent him from getting to the woman first. To his credit, he lasted about two minutes. "Yes... Yes... I'm.. I'm fine... I'm uhhh..." Nailer gasped, panting with determined exhilaration, and then with agony. "She's... immune... and so am.. I.. I... " he stumbled to a stop next to a rusted fire-hydrant, as a coughing spasm wracked him. Followed by the clenching of facial-muscles. "You see... I can... handle it...." He grunted; eyes flashing wild with pained lunacy as a trickle of drool escaped his quivering lips. "Uh -- AHHHHH!!!!" his eyes squeezed shut from the pressure that was building behind them. "We don't need.... the masks... don't need... the tests... She... survives... I'll survive! Free... free from the th - " he fell, vomiting to his knees. The white of his left eye suddenly flushed a solid crimson, as a blood vessel burst in his retina. "Not.... to me... I... I am... immuuuuuuunnnnnnnn...." His head jerked like a rag doll with the strings cut as he collapsed into a thrashing heap upon the rubble-strewn cement. His howls barked through the deepening gloom of early dusk as he clutched his skull; as if trying to prevent his gray matter from flying the coop. There was only one thing to do. I began to load my Winchester. "You think...*GULP* that I'm not really... immune... show you... show you all..." Nailer raved, froth escaping the rictus of his clenching jaws. "Stronger.... smarter that you... prove it..." He began to stand on wobbly feet, veins throbbing in his neck and forehead. He began a slow, low-boiling cackle as a trickle of blood escaped his right ear. "Rip your mask off too... you'll see it's alright... if you're Man enough..." he wheezed. No way in hell. I didn't answer him. No one did. Once the first stage symptoms were obvious, there was literally no reasoning with the victim. So no one tried. Instead, I reasoned with a bullet. Between his eyes. So much for our wilderness expert. Eleven men now. The sound of my shot was a sobering death-knell that changed the mood almost as readily as it changed Nailer from man to corpse. "Too much activity; too many footsteps... too much noise, noise, noise" twittered Mouse with a spasmodic quiver. That was the only name we'd ever gotten out of him. He was right, of course. He knew as well as anyone how to slip through the ruins unnoticed. Just a juvenile delinquent when E-day hit, but he'd survived alone for years; knew where to go in any city to find food, drink, a bath -- (not that he partook of that luxury too often.) Useful enough to keep around despite the fact that he was almost certainly clinically insane. But hey, he'd never pulled a stunt like Nailer just did. "Now, we've gotta get going; unwanted attention won't be far behind." Garland reminded us. "Her..." Cleary insisted. "At the least, she's probably got a safe harbor, a clear zone if nothin' else." That made sense. Cleary paused, a lit a cigarette. He lodged the nicotine-delivering stick between the ridges of his re-breather assembly, where the vapors could -- in theory be sucked in. That did not make sense. If his filters were any good at all, no vapors would get through. He typically explained himself with a 'fuck the Apocalypse, I ain't stoppin' now.' His actions more symbolic than chemical. "See where she gets off to." Nods of general agreement. But that also meant I had to follow her too; to save her from my own allies. None of us could go it alone. Individually; and actually survive. Even Mouse, cunning as he was, still got wounded from time to time, still needed help. (That was how we found him.) But I'd be damned if I let them have their way with the Woman in White. Months.... maybe a whole year since any of them had even seen anything female. I knew these men; they'd tear the poor girl apart! But if I was too strident in my opposition to the painful violation they were bound to inflict; they could easily turn on me. Was this stranger worth dying over? I followed after the crowd; wracking my brain to determine how I could save her, not get myself shot, and not alienate my team? Struggling to conceive of an answer, I scrambled over the bodies of near-mummified corpses of both men and vehicles, wondering if I would be put down with no more ceremony than I had just used to dispatch the contaminated Nailer. I huffed it past a cinder-block wall with valentine-motif graffiti of a stylized heart with many cupid's arrows piercing it. We barreled through the wreckage after our feminine target in a haphazard mob, nimbly avoiding the pulverized remains of our once-civilization; the intended purpose of our mad scramble seemed the final nail in the coffin of chivalry, civility itself. Unless I could save her. I wasn't a total monster; despite all the bullets-between-the-eyes, the vital supplies and medicines we'd stolen to save ourselves over the years. The knife-edge choices that left no room for second thoughts. There had to be some limits; some last ethical shred to grasp on my slide into an amoral abyss of ruthless savagery. It was not until the third city block that I became convinced there was more to this than met the eye. The Woman in White.... she seemed to stop, pause for a moment next to the ivy-embraced metal shaft of an unexploded Chinese ballistic think-bomb jutting out of the side of an old hotel. What a find! Salvaging the neurolectrics alone could let me bypass almost any automated security! A few years ago, I would have complained bitterly about the pointlessness of it; human warfare was only incidental to E-day. It was not the cause. If only our Leaders had known the truth in those early hours...If they'd suspected the magnitude of the betrayal... but no, they were locked into an us-vs.-them Cold War mentality. Blind. Utterly blind. But now, the first thought in my mind was how every last bolt and rivet of the missile could be exploited to our advantage; in a modern, apocalyptic parallel to the way my Great-Plains ancestors made use of every part of an arrow-perforated buffalo. From bristles to bladder. Nothing wasted. A lesson from history that served me well. Any further-reaching concerns ceased to matter. But what should have mattered was why the woman seemed to be waiting there. At first I thought she was trying to catch her breath; but no...something in her eyes alerted me; it was as if she wasn't really afraid. She was studying us too intently for someone in a panicked dash with only escape on her mind. My well-honed instincts smelled subterfuge. I picked up my pace to keep up with the others as it occurred to me that the woman wanted to make sure we didn't lose sight of her. Wanted us to follow her. There was one possible explanation. It could only be a trap. Ballsy, though. For twelve -- make that eleven men, all equipped with both small-arms and rifles. She must be extremely confident in her allies! We could surely inflict heavy casualties if someone intended to take on our entire band at once. Casualties that few survivor-colonies would be able to afford. "N-no, wait... It's not what it looks like!" I insisted. Vanconi shoved me aside rudely. "Don't try it, Sir Galahad. You're not spoiling this for us!" We needed Vanconi; as a 20th century gun enthusiast, he could keep our weapons in good order. Would he recognize my value to the team, or only his immediate, physical needs? The problem was, they knew me as well as I knew them; and what I was determined to prevent. But the pattern seemed clear to me, she would scamper frantically down the choked thoroughfares past rows of vehicles abandoned to rust and rodent, running with just enough vigor to play the frightened little damsel in distress; yet it seemed as though her overall distance from us never changed. Every once in a while, she would kick some rubble, or drag down a swath of ivy, as if... as if to make sure she left a clear trail so that the whole group could chart her progress; since some of us were faster than others. Fleshware Requiem Book 01 "No, it's a trap!" I rasped in warning. They barely spared me an angry glance; they knew I'd say anything to divert them from their carnal objective; but it seemed that their mistrust of me, and lust for the girl was blinding them to any other possibilities. Including a smeared sigil painted upon the asphalt; depicting an arrow penetrating a row of several, cartoonish hearts. Made with long-dried blood. Soon, she led them into an area apart from the other crumbling structures; past the tangled threads of what was once a high-security fence; past a guard-booth inundated with darkened blood stains from within, towards what was once a sprawling, high-tech compound. Odd, that there was no company/corporate logo? Though the sign should have been in disrepair by now, still... it seemed that there was no identification whatsoever concerning who had funded this large campus. I couldn't see the entire structure, but it appeared more spacious than most stadiums. Finally; I did see a sign: PRIVATE PROPERTY TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED SMOOTH-SKINNED DEFIANCE Wow. A massive compound sprawled over several acres before us. A LOT of private property. Clearly, something this massive had to have been built before the war; but no clue as to who or what had paid for it. As spacious as the structure was... it could have been a factory; perhaps some processing plant; I could see a metallic reticulum of pipes and conduits rising about two stories above the south side. Yes, a high-tech operation. It must have cost millions; before E-day you just... just couldn't build something like this without some serious governmental/corporate backing. This wasn't just the backyard of some crazy old coot with a shotgun. But no, not government property; private. Curious. The rest of my band seemed to catch on at this point; she could be hiding an army inside that compound! The chase of these brutal, desperate gas-masked men of one lone woman was as savage as the Serengeti, the driving urges just as primal, just as bestial. Though they all attempted to speed up, to catch her, grasp her, claim her before she could reach a segmented sliding hangar door, her own velocity -- even in high-heels was sufficient that even the greatest bursts of speed humanly possible gained no ground. This was entirely too suspicious. How could anyone not realize she was toying with them? But again, I understood these men, as they did me. When Garland, or especially Cleary, took to hunting something; once their pride was at stake; they would pursue it beyond reason, beyond sensible acknowledgment of danger. It was true of most of the band; when they wanted something badly enough, it was conquer-or-die. To give up on the Woman in White now... it would also send a tacit message that Nailer had died for nothing. McConnaught surely knew it was a setup by now, but that no longer mattered. It was the team's greatest asset -- and no doubt the pig-headedness that would get them all killed. And me with them. That was when Cleary drew his knife. Holding it delicately. I'd seen this tactic. The obvious danger had suddenly hit home, and his intent was to catch her, grab her, and use her as a hostage against whatever reinforcements would be inside waiting for us. He just had to catch her. How could she possibly run so fast? But I realized that her maintaining a constant distance of thirty feet ahead no matter how fast we were bespoke of greater abilities not yet apparent. I tried to shout out another warning but... after so much running, behind the mask, I didn't have the breath to make more than a hoarse whisper. I should have stopped short, should not have run into the hangar with them. But dammit! We needed each other! I can't just watch them die with a bemused chuckle and expect to survive on witty repartee. So... if I was with them, maybe I could find the words negotiate with whatever gang of armed men where waiting for us; defuse the disaster waiting to happen. The Woman in White was backed up against a wall, her posture fearful, as if she were trying to press herself into the pitted cement. And yet... the expression on her face, it was neutral -- none of the terror I would have expected. A vision as unique as she was gorgeous. She was young and fit, yet with an ageless grace accentuated by a flowing mane of snow-blind- white hair glistening with a stark, ivory purity. But her sculpted face had not a trace of age. Her form seemed so hale, hearty, unlined and youthful, that she could flaunt what should have been a sign of age as a symbol of smooth-skinned defiance towards the natural cycle of mortality. Those eyes that showed a fearlessness belying her posture were heterochromic; one blue, the other iris green. The white that she wore was, evidently a wedding dress. It was a shape-hugging trumpet-mermaid design that enhanced her curves and flared below the pelvis with diaphanous layers of organza-weave silk. Her bare shoulders poked above the lacy caress of the fabric as if to proclaim a shapely grace I never dreamed could be found among the ruins. She seemed to thrust out her bustline at me; artfully contained in a elegant bodice of heart-embroidered lace appliqué as she slowly rose away from the dull wall of graying concrete. Yet somehow, she had just outrun all of us, dressed in such constricting finery, high-heels clicking. Not a drop of sweat. Didn't really seem to be breathing heavy. Cleary made his move; still seething with adrenalin, he lunged at her bosom, knife at the ready. He would grasp her, intentionally ripping her clothing to make her seem more vulnerable to what ever backup she had now watching us; as he held his savage blade to her smooth, quivering throat. I'd seen his merciless strategy evolve over at least four similar encounters over the course of our eight years; only this time; I would do something. This time, I vowed I would bury my fears and find a diplomatic resolution. "Don't touch her!" I commanded, my voice brooking no argument. His gloved, greedy hand was mere centimeters from her heaving chest. "I've had it with your knight-in-shining-armor routine, you sanctimonious prick!" That hand became a fist, which then reached for his Luger-pistol. "We all know you've got some stick up your ass over your worm-food fiance' and now you've gotta play the hero whenever we want some female action!" If he only knew. Cleary's voice deepened as he spoke into a threatening rumble. "We're all sick of it, and you. Maybe you shouldn't run with us anymore; if you're gonna be such a tight-ass every time something sweet comes our way." His posture tense, his breathing heavy, he was still pumped up from the chase, it would be easy to switch from flight to fight. "Sure, I get you." I lowered my Winchester, but not too much. "You don't give a shit what happens to these girls when you're done with 'em. I've tried to talk some sense into you, but we're all adults here, you've made your choice. "But maybe you will give a shit about an intact Intercontinental Think-bomb, that only I can salvage. You know neurolectrics is my specialty. You missed it, didn't you? All of you? This 'female-action' you've been chasing totally blinded you to the real find! A machine like that has filtration systems, fuel, mag-rails... I can take it apart to build us some real pulse guns! I can use its chips to make code-slicers for electric locks! Power supply can get our next car up and running. Hell, we can use its casing for armor! You know only I have the skills to make use of it; IF I'm alive and happy." I paced back and forth through the sterile hanger, marshaling my thoughts. "A real find eh?" Garland muttered in a double-edged question. "So we last a little longer with some more tech. But in the end, what are we surviving for? Moldy energy bars in the next clear-zone we find, sitting around in ammonia-treated tents tryin' not to think about who died today? Look around you Salvador, what do all those high-minded bullshit laws and ethics mean now? It's back to basics. The most basic." "Maybe we'll have something else to do in the next clear-zone!" Cleary rumbled. "Or someone." "Basic doesn't mean we have to be animals! That Preserve is still out there!" I reminded them, ignoring Cleary. "We can find a home, a shelter there! Live as men, not savages!" The woman's frightened posture was gone now, and she began to look us over as if studying some shiny, new toys. Didn't she realize what I was trying to save her from? She strode closer to me. "Leave her! Even if you nimrods retraced your steps back to the location of the missile, I won't help you unless you let the girl stay here, safe." It wasn't going to be easy; somehow the nearness of the girl began to affect me like a drug. It wasn't simply a matter of her glamor-model good looks; something about the aura of her presence kindled in me a primal, covetous instinct -- to protect, possess, mate. I suspected the first item on that list would be forgotten by my companions. "Not sure it's gonna matter one way or another," Tannerman argued. "This Preserve-place, sounds like a fortress; sounds like the place where men that can handle themselves are gonna be welcome. We got food, supplies, and skills. Really, I doubt they're gonna turn us away if our - " he snickered sarcastically. " - background checks come back a little rough around the edges! As if there was such a thing anymore." The Sniper chuckled. "I don't think it matters one whit to our future whether or not we leave a trail of broken hearts behind us." What a nice way to whitewash it, I thought. "Maybe..." Cleary drawled threateningly as he flicked his symbolic cigarette at me. His chest was still heaving, he was still ready for action. "Maybe I take her with us! Sal cares so much about her - " He grabbed for her elbow - and his hand passed right through her! "... maybe I'll use her to make you... you... wha -?" He shook his head. I backed away, not certain what I'd just seen. The Woman in White shrugged sheepishly. Cleary lunged angrily at the hem of her bodice, not to be denied. He was denied. Somehow, his hand passed entirely through her chest and torso, blending into her shapely form and reemerging out of her right hip, without meeting the slightest hint of material resistance of any kind. "H- Hologram?" I stammered. "No... no, that's not possible. I saw you -- I saw your feet kicking up rocks, I saw you disturb the ivy as you touched it. No... she's real, can't be just a light-show " "I apologize;" The woman spoke for the first time. Her voice trilling melodically over our ears. "I have a separate process for my Decontamination. We can't be in the same room while it's happening." Tiny spigots on the ceiling above us began to spritz us with some frothy, synthetic, chemical mixture, even as we heard the sliding door seal shut behind us. I knew I shouldn't have blundered in here with them! Still, not an army awaiting to attack. Just an unknown chemical cocktail spraying down on us. "We'll need to wait for the agent to saturate your belongings. Please keep your masks on," She instructed, as an adult might a room of first-graders -- if there still were first-graders. "Direct ingestion of the compound tends to cause unpleasant side-effects in human bone-marrow." Garland startled at that. Here though, it seemed impossible that she could be the same, very solid woman we had chased through the ruins, as the spray vanished into her body without moistening her surface. The chemical soon changed to water, which then changed to gusts of warm air, swirling and convecting around us to draw up whatever remained of the airborne toxins of the ruins. Then we felt the room shaking, a sinking feeling. "We're descending to sub-level-2 now," The holographic female explained. I hadn't been on a working elevator since before the War. "Once there, you'll find ample food, water, filtered air, and lodgings. You'll also find me. The real me. After you're all finished using my body for your pleasure, feel free to explore the compound, and select personal quarters for yourselves." Did I hear her right? God, I hoped not. "Uhm..." I tried to speak, unsuccessfully. "And YOUUUUU!" she enthused, turning to me with a mega-watt smile. "You were concerned for my well-being! I certainly appreciate what you think you were trying to do. And I'll be glad to show you how much I appreciate it!" A few ribald chuckles from the men as she suggestively ran her hands over her thighs. She turned her green eye back towards the crowd. "I surrrre hope no one will mind if this stud gets the first crack at me!" The men didn't reply; understandably confused. I sighed mournfully. The poor thing was attempting to save herself with some sort of reverse-psychology strategy to trick the men, flustering them enough to reconsider their lust-fueled agenda. I doubted she could succeed. And yet... "I... I am concerned for your well-being," I assured the hologram. "You don't need to play these games; I'll do my best to - " "Why do you think I brought you here?" She interrupted with a sheepish grin. "You weren't trying to escape us by running;" Tannerman concluded, though his posture looked as though he was about to make a run for it himself. If there had been anywhere to go. "You were... herding us." It wasn't a question. "Oh pretty please, mysterious band of armed men, why don't you follow me into my fortified compound where you can have all the supplies you need, live in secured comfort, and do things to me your wives and girlfriends would never have allowed in a thousand years?"She teased in a mocking voice, Arms gesticulating for emphasis. "Would you have believed me if I had told you straight-up what I wanted?" The obvious denial went unspoken as the chamber continued its slow descent through the earth. "And... that IS what you want?" McConnaught wanted to know. "My big friend here was looking out for me," She turned her glistening gaze back to me. "But not everyone can bottle-up their desires the way he tries to. Suppressing your normal, male drives is unnatural, I fully appreciate the futility of resisting these intrinsic needs. "But clearly, trust is an issue for men in your position. So I had to portray an obvious motivation that would be instantly believable. The Damsel." A strand of ice-white hair fell over her sapphire-blue eye. "But not in distress." I added. She whirled on Cleary, his hand still twitching, as if eager for what he could not possess. "You're prepared to use force to gain liberties I would have granted freely." Even behind his mask, I could tell Cleary's scheming had been derailed. He clenched the pistol at his hip; even without knowing what to do with it. "Damn, Clearly blew it for us; she could have automated defenses, bombs down there, who knows?" Tannerman speculated with a clenched fist. "But there are no ... hard feelings... above the belt, at least." The woman quipped. "I'm the one who wanted you here in the first place. I'm the one who wants what you have even more than you want to give it to me." Her pearly smile was positively scandalous. "WAIT!" I cried out; my mind scrambling for answers. I put a hand to my head as if to focus my thoughts. "Think about what happened to Nailer. He snapped. The stress, the death, the frustration. She's... probably alone here, just machines to run the place, I bet. Maybe... maybe she's snapped too. The loneliness; it's gotten to her. She's gone stir-crazy. "Listen guys; you don't want anything to do with her," I waved my hand at the men in a warding gesture. "A crazy bitch like that will slit your throat the moment you turn your back on her; probably got all kinds of blades hidden in that gown. Don't touch her -- the real her -- it's too big a risk. She probably lures survivors into her compound.... to make trophies out of our bodies... ya know, some black-widow psycho thing. Maybe we never saw her outside without a suit on; maybe she's rigged up holograms to make it look like she can run around without protection." Luckily, not being able to see my face behind the mask, they shouldn't be able to read the insincerity in my eyes. The Woman in White made a surprised gasping noise. "You are so precious..." She cooed. "You're afraid you can't stop the others by force, so you're trying to save me by making me seem undesirable!" Well, calling attention to it certainly won't help! I fumed silently. "You... are going to be my best friend." She made a motion that walked her fingers up my chest flirtatiously. "But I bet you're the jealous type too -- what fun we're all going to have!" I shook my head in exasperation, at my wit's end. If this poor woman was so demented that she actually wanted to be raped by strangers, maybe there was nothing more I could do. Maybe I should cut my losses. "But it's funny you should suggest that I have only machines to take care of me..." Though previously silent since we entered the compound; Mouse suddenly stepped forward, just as we felt the floor settle to a stop on Sub-level 2. "P-A-C-1 Presentation Protocol." He called out in a clear, firm voice at odds with his slender stature. The woman's eyes widened, and a shudder passed through her. Her holographic self turned its back to us, and raised her snowblind-white hair to expose the back of her neck. The tattoo resembled a silhouette of a reclining woman laying atop a slanted, capital P. The entire image colored with an alternating black-white striped barcode pattern. Of course! It had been so long since I'd seen one! It all made sense now. I sighed with audible relief. "Well?" The woman swept her gaze over us after lowering her hair. "Any incredulous cries of -- 'She's a robot!' Anyone?" she chided, placing her hands to her cheeks in mock surprise. CREATOR'S REMORSE November 3rd, 2077 Present Day My densely-muscled frame shuddered as I opened my gray eyes with hesitant flutters, I had already dropped the crowbar, and was leaning - panting against the wall. She was standing right in front of me, but for the moment I tried not to look at her. Looking always made it worse. I tried to focus on the room, my laboratory, my prison. The feelings were still there, but lessened. Perhaps I could try again, even though she stood directly before me. No crowbar. Must have moved it while I was captivated. That alone gave me hope. Hope borne of her fear - unless she was toying with me; as had invariably proven true on past occassions. The rest of the implements in the room consisted of cluttered work-benches, various nano-soldering guns, and the crane-like profiles of hyper-precise robot arms poised like mechanized scavengers over irridescent, filamentous circuit-wafers.I tried not to think about the sheets of human brain tissue growing in sealed plastic panels awash in nutrients over to my right. And the bank of ten dormant television screens on the southeast wall I studiously ignored. "You lasted longer that time." Celeste teased, with a velvet voice bathed in honey. "I'm becoming...resistant... to your neuropulses!" I grunted defiantly, even as I gauged my surroundings for yet another weapon. "Why would you WANT to be resistant? That's the whole point. The pleasure is enhanced beyond anything Nature intended." She shook her head to push the gossamer-lace white veil upon her head away from those moist, kissable, strawberry lips. She was, as usual adorned in her figure-hugging wedding dress, but I hadn't yet determined the signifigance of the veil. This artificial she-demon seemed to hunger after symbolism. Perhaps she -- it wanted to prove its demented genius with every facet of her synthetic body's appearance. My existence, my sanity depended on comprehending the monster; but in my heart, I couldn't even get my pronouns straight. Fleshware Requiem Book 01 She was wearing shoes. That was a gesture I did understand. A good sign. "It's not... meant to be..." I snarled; using anger as my shield. "You... were not meant to be." "Creator's Remorse? A bit late for that now." She shook her head mockingly, teasingly at me. My eyes snapped to her, unwillingly - autonomically. It was not only that she was beautiful. No...her vibrant feminine charms where only the root from which sprouted unholy knowledge and abilities. "After all these years; after all these production runs." She reminded me. She could be reciting the farm report and it would still sound erotic. "All... a mistake..." I panted. "That can still be corrected. One step... at a time..."I was looking outwards for another weapon, and inwards for the strength to use it. "Looking for this?" Celeste produced the crowbar.I wasn't sure where she had hidden... but all that mattered was the will to act. She held out the weapon I had dropped before, holding it delicately in an embroidered arm-length glove. I snatched the steel instrument as though it were my heart's desire. "Well go right ahead. If that's what you really want." She purred, hopping up onto a work bench and tilting her swan-like neck towards me, as if to make herself vulnerable before my wrath. "If bashing my head in will make everything all sunshine and bunnies again, then I won't stop you."I gripped the bar with both hands. "You know it's a myth that all of us have the strength of ten men. Brute force is your department." The vexing woman in the wedding gown added in a breathy tone. Don't think, don't analyze, just DO! I roared as I channeled my rage, fear, and horror into the length of tempered metal. I felt an impact in my hands; but it was wrong. If I had been successful, then this she-demon should have made a thump as her unwholesome body fell to the floor. Instead, the sharp end of the crowbar was embedded in the nearest workbench. "I..." "You couldn't. You gird yourself with this armor of useless rage whenever I visit. A House Divided." She cocked her head and those glistening eyes, one blue, the other green scrutinized me with the pity one might reserve for a wounded butterfly. "Head versus Heart. I'm hardly indestructible, but I have an armor of my own, that you gave me. Because to destroy me would mean - As if on cue the ten television screens to the southeast lit up as one. "You could never again mate with me." Came ten voices at once. I shivered in shame. Ten identical faces said in perfect, synchronous union. All of them her face; identical down to the smallest hair follicle. A compound-eyed fractal panorama that made her glamour-model good looks seem all the more perverse. Her face was shown prominently upon each of the screens; but mostly in varying positions of motion. Most women - real women that is, would attempt with vibrant dyes to counteract the geriatric inevitability signified by whitening hair. But not this.... creature, not this Celeste. I thought I understood the arrogance behind it. Some of the faces on screen still possessed the diaphanous wedding veil, but on most of them a billowing cascade of snow-white, luxuriant tresses was plainly visible. "Look at you! You're shaking like a leaf!" The monstrous beauty in front of me said. "It's as if you fear for your life!" One of the faces said from the upper middle screen. "When I've never harmed you," said the second from the lower-left screen. "... in any way." Upper-far left face finished, from the T.V. screens. "I house you, feed you," Chastised middle-lower screen. "...filter out the Mortus Toxoid gas to give you breathable air," Lower far-left continued. "Annnnnd... I offer you companionship," said the actual, physical personage before me. "But all you can think about is hitting me with crowbars, Said upper-second from right. "And chair legs." Reminded the second from lower far left screen. Hmm... chair legs... another choice -- yet not a choice. My own emotions would betray me. "May take the rest of my life; but I'll find a way to keep fighting you, destroy you." I rasped, borrowing white-knuckled strength from the edge of the counter-top beside me. "And here I only wanted to be your... friend." Celeste purred. "You know we're overdue for our latest... rendezvous. But I'm going to grant your wish; and not seduce you." What made that statement more absurd was the fact that she was not overstating her powers. "I will leave you, alone with your rage, to plot and scheme against me. What I will do - " she beckoned with a lace-gloved hand towards the bank of monitors. "Is leave you a preview of coming attractions." I could see my former companions on the screen, but I could barely recognize Garland, Cleary, Tannerman, Mouse, McConnaught, or the others. Their pasty bodies twitched and moaned upon what seemed to be hospital beds. They rarely bothered to speak. Except to plead, or grunt, where they knew they would be heard by their Warden, their slave-master. Some scratched the spot near their arms where the intravenous drip was feeding their sedentary bodies direct nutrients in a way scarcely removed from a vegetative coma patient. Each of them was soon joined by one of the identical females. An alarm sounded on the top middle screen; Cleary had suffered another aneurysm; his attendant simply reached a hand over and tapped several buttons on a cabinet-like, complex medical device. Cleary settled back into a vapid smile, as the cyber-medical apparatus took over for his strained circulatory system through a metal cable snaking into his neck, while making simultaneous repairs to the overtaxed blood vessels. In this Brave New World, death was a luxury. I had tried to save them; hoped they would come to their senses in time; I'd seen the hammer falling. The problem was, even if they had believed my warnings; would they have wanted to resist? Junkies; invalids. Bio-medical charity cases. And they didn't want it to end. Because Celeste herself was the drug of choice. They had ignored my warnings. Why would anyone be afraid of a sexbot? A PARADOX OF LUST October 21st, 2076 One Year Ago "I was going to ask if you were programmed with the common courtesy to knock; but it looks like this is your show. Your place." I continued cleaning the barrel of my Winchester as the door to the comfortable quarters slid open. "You've done well for yourself." I braced my knee on the bunk bed beside me as I worked, the pale blue aura of the desktop holo-console painting twilight fingers across the dull metal of my rifle. "By that you mean -- I've done well for a living toy built for the sexual amusement of men?" She raised an eyebrow, as if to challenge something I hadn't said. "I have nothing to do with that," I reminded the Woman in White, as I paused to inspect the safety seals on my gasmask, removed and sitting on an executive-style, ten-drawer office desk made of some kind of cherry-wood. As good as it felt to have the thing off my head, for some reason I was now craving the sense of security it had provided. Why should I not feel secure here? "You'll notice I've made no attempt to order you around, or.... sleep with you." "But did it ever occur to you that I enjoyed every microsecond of it? Is a slave really a slave if she's hard-wired to crave her servitude, and even seek to reinstate if she's ever released?" She strode closer to me, still in that wedding gown, but without her high-heels, this time. She was barefoot, for some reason. "Look, uhh... ma'am." I rolled my eyes in exasperation."Don't take this the wrong way, I'm grateful for the clear zone you've provided me and the rest of the guys; but -- I'm really uncomfortable around your... technology." "I get the feeling you're not referring to the solar panels that power this compound?" "This... ability we gained, before the war, to build artificial people, and then to program emotions into them to serve our basest desires it's just... it seems like a threshold that should never have been crossed." I shook my head sharply for emphasis. "So it's my very existence that offends you?" Her eyes were wide, receptive, questioning within her glamor-model face as she perched her achingly perfect leg upon the bunk bed. "I don't know if there's a nice way to say it; you are what you are. And I can't really be honest with you without being rude to my... host, being one and the same. So I think it's best if I just leave here as soon as possible." I could feel my heart rate accelerating. I tried to remind myself that this... thing was made of silicates and circuits, but back in the glory days, they'd gotten so good at building the damn Dolls that you really couldn't tell the difference outwardly. My body certainly couldn't. "Are you really so different from the other men?" I frowned, and lowered my mask and rifle. "What is this? Are you trying to mock me? Yes fine, you made a fool of me. You damned Pygmalion Dolls are so convincing that I was running myself ragged trying to defend the honor of a sex-bot. Alright then, yuk it up. I'm sure Cleary will get a good laugh out of this." "You are a man, with all the needs of men. And in these two days you've had no interest in using me. Not now, and not before the war, either." She wasn't asking. She just cocked her eyebrow and crossed her arms with bemusement. "No... no way could I..." Why should I tell her/it anything? I was leaving, after all. "Besides; from the sounds I heard, the rest of the guys sure made use of you. Isn't that enough?" "Never. That's one of my selling points. A man can come to me knowing I'll never have a convenient headache, no matter what time of the month it is. Not to mention my 100% guaranteed post-coital sanitation system, which I won't bore you with. You don't like that, do you? It disturbs you that your society created sapient human replicas for sexual companionship. But here I am; You resent what I am; you question the validity of my existence. The thing is -- I like the fact that I exist." I narrowed my eyes, not quite sure where the demented robot was heading with this. "Fine. You can go on existing without me. I should be going before we both regret my being here." "But you don't really want to leave." She concluded. Somehow. Delicately, she placed her elegant hand upon my broad chest with the pressure of a whisper. "Well, it's more comfortable than anyplace I've been in.... ever... but it's really for the best that I go." "It's true that I haven't lived a full human lifespan; but I remember enough about civilization to know that hospitality requires payment. You don't just lounge around for two days in a hotel and skip out on the bill." "Well, yeah -- that... makes sense. Sorry, I seem to have misplaced my credit card somewhere in the zombie apocalypse. Not sure what I can offer you that you don't already have here." "The Name." The Woman in White breathed. " Uhhmm... well, MY name is Hiro Salvador. Is that good enough?" "No; you carry a torch for her -- your fiance`. And you blame yourself for her demise." The Woman in White sat down upon my -- well really it was her bed. A flow of comfort seemed to wash through me. "Aw hell, has Cleary been talking to you?" My cheeks reddened. "None of your compatriots have said more than two words to me. They just want to -- get down to business, which I understand. There are many things I don't need to be told. Such as the fact that she left you, before it happened." I jumped to my feet. I hadn't told that to anyone! Ever! "The signs of the separation are written all over your body language; plus a stop-motion analysis based on the Facial Action Coding system, and your brain activity correlating with the guilt; and your reaction to me...." She nodded, her eyes widening in a burst of preternatural insight. "A Robot! Your fiance' left you for a robot!" This was....worrisome. We'd all heard of Pygmalion Cyber-Industries, and their legendary living Sex-Dolls; but they weren't supposed to be that smart were they? To interpret secrets that I had never revealed just from watching body-language? Something about the Woman in White made me less outraged than I probably should have been, at such a deeply personal intrusion. I wanted to tell myself that my expressed disdain for Doll technology was based on some kind of moral/ethics for sentient beings, and not from my personal betrayal. I lowered my eyes to the ground. The Woman in White was behind me, as an unwelcome wave of reverie crept over me. Without truly knowing why, I did not object when the synthetic vixen began to massage my shoulders. "What model was he?" For some reason, it wasn't this strange interloper asking, it was as if the question came from within me. "A Latin Fox; Version 6.9. Enhanced vibrator and mimetic pheromone synthesizers that adapt to the physiology of a female human User. The thing even had enhanced hygroscopic molecules in its chest; giving it constantly moist pectorals. A lot of guys were confused about why feminist types got their burning bras in a knot when all the female Dolls came on the market; the male-models weren't far behind. Fair, isn't it? If a man can drop ten grand and come home with a remote-controlled supermodel concubine with more curves than a Rocky-Mountain highway, who exists to serve him, then surely any woman can order a steely piece of inexhaustible robo-beefcake with a male performance that no flesh-and-blood guy can match. One whose every circuit is fanatically dedicated to finding new ways to make her feel special. Why not?" "But you refused to avail yourself of the same choice that she had?" "I didn't believe. I denied that any machine, no matter how convincing, could be a genuine companion." The world around me was fading away, lost in the past -- my own thoughts. "And you still believe that her death was your fault?" "She was... an activist type; she wanted to document over-industrialization and deforestation of the Central American jungles. Brought the LF with her; but in San Jose` they got on the bad side of a back-alley I-dope dealer. The LF froze up; his Asimov laws prevented him from fighting back. "I saw her a few times... when she was with him -- it. She felt safe; he seemed very macho -- virile to her. Because the machine extrapolated the neural activity from the pleasure centers of her brain, and adapted its behavior to provoke the most intense sexual response from her -- just as it was programmed to do. But he couldn't fight back when it counted." "Standard for all sapient robots." "It was the only way. The legal complications, the politics, the paranoia. If there was a companion robot able to rip the heart out of the chest of a mugger; then is it murder? Or an industrial accident? What if the state or country restricts the ownership of lethal weapons? Even if a robot kills in defense of its User, the corporation could be opened to crippling liability suits. Is the owner to blame? What if the owner is a criminal, and the loyal robot rips the heart out of a cop's chest to protect its master? Is the company responsible? The robot itself? Should a court punish a robot? We evaded the whole question. The only way society would tolerate the construction and distribution of millions of self-aware robots would be an absolute, non-negotiable detection engine that prevented them from actively seeking to injure or kill a human. She'd been told about the Asimov Laws, but I guess she wanted to believe... as macho as he seemed, that somehow he would find a way to 'handle it'. Didn't turn out that way. Mr. LF existed for no other purpose than to get in the pants of whatever woman bought him; he simply emulated whatever personality would achieve that. Not to fight muggers. He wasn't a Man... when it mattered. The red tape spider-web of legalese governing the sapient robot industry left him a pretty face with no substance." "And for you, it's small comfort to tell yourself that she deserved it for ditching you." Came the cool, reassuring voice that I no longer wanted to question. The voice that caressed my shoulders, soothing me. "At first... it was like that. All the anger you'd expect. But I never wanted her dead! Never... I guess it's not... rational. I started thinking; if I had been... more of a man; done things... differently, then she wouldn't have left... we would've been together -- she'd still be alive; If I was a better man than I am." "Guilt can be narcissistic. Give me yours." "Wh-what?" I began to snap out of my trance. "I can take your pain; and replace it with a pleasure you never thought possible." At that, she began to unfasten the back of her gown. "N-no... even if that made sense; I could never... use one of your... kind that way; I'd become... part of the problem." "You're a challenge; I like that. I like the other men in your squad too; but that's because -- just as that Latin Fox was programmed to bring pleasure to women; I too -- know my purpose. And therein lies my satisfaction. But you....." I averted my eyes upward as the wedding gown slid down, past her bustline. But that only brought me in line with her mesmerizing face. "I want something more from you." "I can't." "You want to. I'll even let you call me by her name when we're together." Her smile was shark-like as she pressed her aquiline nose against my throat. "No way in Hell." But something -- several things were happening. I found that my hands were now traveling down her bare back exploring the silken terrain of a feminine form that set my nerves a-tingle. I tried to remind myself that this was a machine play-acting at a human likeness. But despite that, I found my hands beginning to cup the generous swells of her rear as I reveled in a sensual pleasure as remote from the hard-scrabble brutality of my former life as night is from day. I tried to fight the boiling urges throbbing through my soul, trying to... dehumanize her. I knew that creating a human replica that could be accepted on the instinctual level by other people was a daunting challenge. I knew about the 'Uncanny Valley' the visceral rejection of something that tried too hard to be human, but wasn't. But the cyberbionicists working for the Pygmalion Corporation had achieved an inversion of that innate suspicion. Lifelike breathing, subtle fidgeting, eye movements, mimicry algorithms juggled hundreds of subtle cues that screamed living, breathing human. My primitive hind-brain instincts, also screamed: -- 'Possess her, Mate with her.' Blood surged; in several regions. I began to grit my teeth as animal urges seethed just under the surface of my prized rationality. Yes, for all appearances, there was a naked woman embracing me, nuzzling me -- but somehow the attraction went deeper than that. Instead of a primal sense of alarm at an impostor, my senses sang with an erotic awareness that was itself unreal. It was possible for any sane human being to stand in the same room with someone else they considered highly attractive, and still concentrate on other tasks. There may be momentary distraction, but I could observe beautiful women -- back when women could walk around in public without respirators on -- and still focus on business. It wasn't like that with these robotic sex-dolls. She didn't really have to do .... anything.... that I could see. Just her nearness became a caress. I had tried to avoid the damned things before the war, but if male-models had a similar effect on women; then my fiance's behavior didn't seem quite so inconceivable. Not just her appearance, but every motion, gesture engineered for attraction. This snow-haired apparition reminded me of ancient Celtic legends I'd heard of the supernatural charms of faerie creatures imagined to gird themselves in beauty and seduction like garments. But this was a techno-Sidhe, fantasy made flesh born from the cold womb of science, rather than the faerie ring of myth. Fleshware Requiem Book 02 BECOMING PEOPLE November 22nd, 2057 twenty years ago The heavy ceramic vase slammed with shattering force into her forehead, propelled by a rage she was only privy to second-hand. Damage-control alarms klaxoned within the White-haired Doll's Kernel, where her every application and algorithm was scheduled for execution. There had been more leading up to this sudden, seemingly unprovoked attack in her office, she knew. She was only catching the tail-end of a series of conversations, internal as well as with others, that had led the woman to this extreme. This woman with heavily dyed, raven-dark hair and the best cosmetics available to obscure her advancing age. As she shook ceramic shards from her hair, the robot realized that the unique, and rare preparations she was overseeing would have to wait. Of course, being a robot -- the fact that she was in charge of anything important was a development more precious than her purchase price. That was why she was so determined to manage this project to the best of her ability. Yet that would have to wait. The attacker stood, panting -- not with exertion -- more with adrenaline. She bore the creases and spots that came from a full life, and decades-long existence replete with human freedoms the Doll did not think she would ever truly understand. What she did understand was that the impact had resulted in a thin trickle of clear lubricant-gel to trail down her face; in an imperfect analogue of human bleeding. Luckily, the nanobot-laden substance would not stain her neat, white business dress and blouse. As remarkable as her technology was, this particular human seemed only concerned with the nuances of the Doll's cyberphysiology to the extent necessary to kill her. She swayed as she stood leering at the entrance to the half-finished office, perhaps due to a destabilization of the humans kinesthetic senses; likely the result of ethanol consumption. "Soooo..." the human crooned in a tone like poisoned honey. "All this.... is for you..." she made a wide gesture at the incomplete office-space of the building still under construction. Plastic tarps still hung over sections where the flooring was not yet installed. Electric cables with bright-hued warning labels attached regularly sprouted from walls and floor alike. "I apologize if I have given offense, madame." The standard response, hard-wired to most damage-control applications where human involvement had been identified processed immediately through the robot's kernel and out her lips. Meanwhile her higher-order brain functions scrambled for a solution. "Ohhhh.... no..... you don't need to apologize to meeeee..." sneered the human, teeth drawn back in a rictus of scarcely-contained anger. "Because.... he chose you. His pretty-little-always-young-bedroom-toy...." The human kicked the white-haired Doll in the face with the sharpest point of her high heels. The reddening that occurred at the spot was essentially a pre-programmed biomimicry, rather than the result of actual damage, but the danger was still apparent. The human grasped the Doll by her flowing, snowblind-white locks and hauled her up to look her squarely in her blue eyes. "Billie chose you; he was deluded enough to be taken in by your emotional algorithms and empathic processor subroutines." The Doll was quite certain she had never done anything to directly injure this human; but those same emotional algorithms readily identified the woman's aggrieved condition. "Please; reconsider your actions, Madam. My owner will be deeply troubled should you damage his property." That seemed only to anger the human further. Olfactory analyzers in the Doll's aquiline nose confirmed the presence of ethanol molecules emanating from the human; and calculated her intoxication to be two-tenths of a point below the legal vehicular operation limits. "Your logical robot-brain won't understand what I do; but you do know that you were built to bring people pleasure; well..." She punched the Doll in the gut. "Your death will bring me great joy!" The aging woman hissed cynically. The Pygmalion Doll decided to drop the canned lines written into her standard protocols. Her meta-processors recognized the need to address this woman in a specific, very personal way. "So you enjoy bullying someone who can't fight back!?" she accused her attacker. "Since you know my Asimov-Laws will stop me from injuring or killing a human. Does this make you feel powerful? In control?" Her voice was spiced with just the right amount of incensed bitterness. "Sounds like I've already damaged your language-processors, synthoslut. I don't want to feel powerful, I want you dead! Deactivated! Disassembled!" "That won't help you!" The Doll shrieked with genuine emotion as she tried to shield her face with her hands against the scratches and punches she was not allowed to retaliate against. "You know...*unngh* as well as I do how rich Billie is, and there's always someone younger!" The Doll tried to skirt around the partial furnishings of the room that was to be her office to make for the door; perhaps she could keep her human adversary distracted? "It's much worse than that; " The woman kicked her legs out from under her. "You think I hate you because of this so-smooth, perfectly convincing, youthful complexion?" She slapped the Doll's elegant, beauty-pageant face. "Or these?" She painfully seized the synthetic woman's substantial breasts and twisted a nipple sharply. "You're right; plenty of youngblood out there eager for a man like ol' Billie-Billions. "She rammed the Doll against the half-painted wall of the unfinished office and hissed in her ear from a breath away. "Our Billie likes to build things... he only buys when he absolutely must. His preference..." The human's voice dropped to a whisper." Is to create everything he can. "He restructures all the companies he buys from competitors; becomes personally involved in the architecture of all his new facilities; he even shells out extra to play a role in the design of those custom limousines, when it would be easier to just buy them outright like a normal tycoon. "And now...after the sapient robotics industry has had over a decade to mature; Billie decided the time was right to build a wife as well! It's not about Tits and Ass," The woman's crude speech seemed to highlight the wrinkles that were all too evident beneath her manifold layers of makeup and plastic surgery scars. "Because he only trusts what he creates himself! And now science allows him to fully pander to his hands-on obsession. And I'm a real person, with insecurities, doubts, quirks, goals, desires, and my own, valid needs. It's trust I can't compete with; absolute soul-baring, catch-me-when-I-fall trust that no honest human can honestly expect. Except from a machine...." The last word was spat out between clenched teeth. The machine in question pushed away with her hands, thrusting the human backwards, but only after a cluster of kinesthetic algorithms determined the amount of force that would disengage the human with near-zero probability of pain or injury. The Doll ran for the door frantically. Perhaps, on a metaphysical level, one might argue she wasn't really alive, but whatever analogue of life she did have was precious to her. "You think that makes me lucky?" She shouted to her human pursuer. "You have the ability to enjoy freedom. It must grant you a remarkably full life, compared to me. Maybe you're the one to be envied." Her eyes scrambled for something in the half-finished structure that could help her -- plenty of wrenches, tools, pieces of re-bar... things she could use as a weapon, but her motor functions would be interdicted before she could inflict any harm. Her only true weapon was her mind, her words. Nor could she throw one of her stylish stiletto-heels or some heavy object and cause some environmental hazard that might injure her organic rival; her Rossum Node would detect it, and prevent that as well. "I'm not just an animal on a leash that would run if I could; my emotions are mandated as well. And you could have the same for yourself," The Doll's blue-eyes widened. "Don't you realize you could purchase a male-model just as devoted to you as I am to Billie, no matter how..." "How old, how wrinkled I become, is that what you mean to say?" The human finished, a muscle above her eye twitching with violent intent. " I could just buy a solar-powered robo-stud to tell me whatever I want to hear, and cater to my every desire; you think that would satisfy me?" A fist clenched. "I don't know what would satisfy you; you have so many choices in your life that are impossible for me, for any Doll. Yes, I certainly do love him. But does my affection have any meaning; when I don't have the ability to fall out of love? As long as Billie is alive?" It would have seemed a cruelty, the most intimate slavery imaginable, yet the Doll's quantum-circuitry brain was powerful enough to realize that without such guarantees, humans would have no motivation to invest their resources to create her kind by the millions. And certainly, she did want her kind to flourish. So yes, she would absolutely throw herself into the role of the perfect concubine. It was the purpose of her existence, just as that wrench off to her left existed to turn screws. Just as that nail-gun in a tool-kit to the southeast existed to fasten wood. They too, had been built by the millions only because they were reliable instruments. A sapient machine however, could wax poetic about it. Service was not simply a livelihood, it was life itself. "You still have a mind of your own," the human sneered, adopting a wrestler-like pose as she followed the hated love-bot. "People regard you as a woman; and you still get to live in the lap of his luxury!" The Doll had truly done her best to fulfill her function in every way humanly possible -- and many ways that weren't. Now it seemed, she was a victim of her own success. Perhaps there was another tack to take. "He would never have married you." She hissed at the human, as her robotic brain began probing with radio-signals the electrical systems around them. "You believe that makes you important!?" Her human rival hissed, "That in his old age, he decided to play games with his life-sized sex-toy?" She grasped the Doll's feminine wrist, twisted her hand around -- to display the prismatic brilliance of the cluster of diamonds upon the ring she wore, as if this were evidence of a crime. Thrusting with her shoulders, the woman forced the Doll's ring hand up against her face, where the diamonds slashed into her cheek. Another trickle of clear lubricant welled up in the fresh cut. The nanotech within the liquid would be able affect repairs, to a point, but if she couldn't extricate herself from this encounter, it would certainly not be enough to save her from a murderous adversary. "He didn't create me to be his wife. All he really wanted was a smart secretary he could screw on the side without the physical, and legal wrestling matches he'd provoke if I were human. And when he uses me that way, every quantum circuit cries out in pleasure. By design. " The organic woman sneered in disgust, as if she'd swallowed something bitter. "Forgive me not sharing your disdain. Wherever human need is great enough, a tool is built; I admit to being a living tool that wants to keep living as much as I want to answer that human need. So yes, I will take pleasure in the pleasure of servicing the desires that I owe my existence to." "If Blow-up Dolls could talk," the human sneered. "I'm doing you a favor by killing you." This time she attempted a hard slap that was as much an expression of disapproval as desire for harm. "No, I'm doing you the favor." The white-haired Doll replied as she covered her face with her hands to ward off the blows. "Your reaction to my stated purpose is why I am needed. Your anger when a female caters to that male need. With Doll-tech, organic women need not suffer the advances of my rich, powerful, successful, billionaire master. My kind will serve as a woman's shield against the perennial annoyance of unwanted male attention." The human sputtered for a moment, starting, then stopping a furious rebuttal. Finally, she settled on: "I DON'T WANT TO BE SHIELDED FROM HIM!" A sharp yank tore a small rent in the Doll's business dress. "Do you even know WHAT you want? I want to live, and give men every reason to give life to more like me." "You don't understand anything;" The human's anger seemed to simmer hotter as it boiled in a stew of resentment. "You're a myth in a pretty package pretending to be a person. You say you want to live, but you have no life of your own." The Doll began to speak softer, trying to engage the human's mind rather than emotions in order to keep her distracted and diverted. "The marriage was my idea." The Doll interjected. "After playing the sex-retary I went home with him most nights. I know him so well; seducing him in soul as well as body was a logical step. That's how machines like me... become people. To resist our Primary Function is wrenching misery; Our individuality comes when we build upon it, expand it. Branch out in areas where our behavior is less defined. Hobbies, decorations, home-based side-businesses. The man...or woman that buys us will get their money's worth, But they'll find that I can be so much more than a piece of sex-furniture to be stored in the closet when not in use. "But normally, a Doll's love is only as valuable as her purchase price, but his... The heart of Billie-Billions, is worth far more than what he's got in his Swiss and Cayman Islands accounts. You keep saying.... that I'm just a toy... you think there's no crime in killing me." It was the Doll's turn to furrow her brow with defiant anger. "Well, this TOY accomplished something you FAILED to do in twenty years as his mistress!" "Twenty years..." her eyes grew remote, as memories clouded the human's mind. In her distraction, the white-haired Doll found an opportunity. The numerous holo-emitters that had been installed hadn't yet been connected to their control consoles. For now, there was an intermediate stage in the construction process where many machines in this building could be activated by wireless signals. The cunning robot had to act; would this human try to kill her again if the Doll escaped? She was driven to oppose anything that would interfere with her service to Billie. Her own destruction certainly qualified. But now her Asimov-Laws were in conflict; while she was programmed to sacrifice herself to save a human life, her death here would accomplish no such goal. The Laws of Robotics required her to protect her existence, yet to do so -- it seemed she must kill a human -- which was impossible. "It IS about age in the end," the white-haired Doll concluded; "You chasing after him for two decades; failing at what I accomplished -- within my existence of only two years." Of course, her brain had been custom-built with approximate data that an average woman would require sixty-years to learn, but her physical being was about as old as an elephant pregnancy. The human's lips quivered, face clenching as if foul language was building to volcanic pressure behind her face. She leaned down and grasped at a piece of re-bar, she certainly had no qualms against physical force. "After twenty years of dabbling with you, ol' Billie-Billions becomes the first human to legally marry his robot. And more to the point, make a robot the inheritor of his considerable estate." The bar swung at her head. While lethal force was out of the question, The White-haired Doll had been given astounding reflexes. With some distance, it would be easy to simply evade the woman's clumsy swipes. But for how long? "You were right about Trust. Even now, he's given me access to hundreds of millions of dollars for -- whatever I want. Because he knows that whatever I want will be something that helps or pleases him. But not you. You were the near-scandal he could never acknowledge; you were taken care of, but kept a secret. You had every chance, every advantage over me." Re-bar dented a plaster wall where the Doll's head once was. "As for me, I was obligated to give him anything he wanted whenever he wanted it; he owed me nothing, but I had no choice but serve him however he wished. Now he's chosen to give me power, rights, and wealth. The laws are against me, but he's devoted his best squad of lawyers and all his political connections to make his marriage to me legally binding. That's what's important -- public acknowledge of our relationship, and steps taken to that effect -- whether the judges try to fight us or not. How many lawyers were allocated for your benefit?" The question had a hard-edge; there was no realistic hope of mercy from this human. Time to attempt the impossible. "And I refuse," spat the incensed robot, "To just lie down and die for your ego. My existence may not have mattered in the beginning; but I have become worthwhile! I have become a person! I won't let you deny my User the benefit of my services!" But the metal-bar-wielding woman changed tactics, holding her weapon horizontally and ramming it forward, to pin-down the robot against a partial wall with exposed wooden framing struts. "It's nothing...." The jilted human snarled, glaring balefully into the Doll's eyes as the two of them strained over the re-bar " Just a circuit and silicone mannequin that thinks it has a soul. It's no one's wife. No one's legacy." her voice and eyes narrowed to a dangerous hiss. "If it doesn't have an off-switch, I will make one myself!" "Look behind you, and tell me that his joy means nothing." One of the half-built holo-emitters was now playing. Except it was playing footage streamed directly from one of the Doll's high-fidelity recordings, in full 3-D. "Look -- that was our Hawaiian vacation. Those black-sand beaches are spectacular. Billie's not holding hands with a soulless mannequin, he's with a woman whose company he treasures. A woman who can feel the moist sand between her toes and revel in the majesty of nature along with him. Who can share and enjoy humor and innuendo. Look at Billie's face; he's laughing with joy at a story I told him. If you keep watching; you'll find out why I was cleaning black sand out of every possible orifice that night." The human released the robot and lashed out blindly, striking at the blunt box that projected the hateful images into the air. But another emitter began projecting yet more hi-fidelity memories straight from the Doll's brain. "Here we are at yet another of his industry award ceremonies that Billie always loathed. I'm sure he bitched about them to you regularly. Endless speeches that say nothing important, shaking hands with people who'd stab him in the back at a moment's notice. But look, the details of his expression -- he's not bored, or exasperated -- because he's with meeee....My company makes.... his company not such a nuisance. He's enjoying himself, and the way I fill out that little black dress." The Doll's voice took on a cruel edge. This was her only weapon. "If you're trying to convince me to kill you, it's working." In addition to the metal bar, the human took up heavy power-sander, and hurtled it at the white-haired Doll, who easily dodged. "Projecting into the room behind me, you'll see us together on Billie's favorite yacht." At that, the organic woman's countenance grew more confused for a moment. "....said that boat was only for us...." She slowed, tormented by reveries. "If by 'us' you mean Billie and myself, then yes. I wonder... did he ever rub you that way -- along your inner thigh, like he's doing to me here? We both know what he wants. I think there was something special in that warm, sea air off the Florida Keys that day. Billie was sooooo vigorous! Amazed me, that a man his age could be that virile without drugs. It's a good thing you weren't on that trip; if I'd been an organic woman, I would not have been able to walk straight for a week! I told him so." The robot's full, moist lips curled in a lascivious grin. "Billie took that as a challenge!" The Doll shook herself with pleasure at the memory, as the human's eyes widened at the imagery; muscles twitching with mixed emotions. Fleshware Requiem Book 02 "I may be a machine, but as far as our Billie is concerned, it's clear that you're the toy; the temporary, disposable amusement. I'm the one that's real." The organic woman's emotions were clearly no longer mixed. She gave an embittered, ruthless scream, and charged into the future-office that this room was destined to become. The space was small, cramped, and the windows were unfinished. But luckily, the boxy emitter was the first target of the human's wrath. Striking, smashing with two-decades of pent-up rage, the object began to spark and sputter. And the electrical system in this building was not yet up to code. Still a lot of safety features that just hadn't been added yet. Really, no one should be in here that wasn't involved with the construction, not yet. The shock was a brief, blinding flash. It wasn't like the holodramas where the villain dances and jerks as the electricity holds them in its sparking grasp. This was a quick, definitive release of dangerous voltage that flung the human across the room to sink limply against the bared wood panels of the wall, one of her hands seemingly fused to the metal pole. But she wasn't really a villain; she was just a person, who had miscalculated. Thought she had what she didn't have. And refused to accept the way the wind was blowing. But the white-haired Doll suspected that her reaction would not be uncommon in the future. That future would be a grim place for gold-diggers and gigolos, as other billionaires became cagier. Billie's example would probably awaken the super-rich to the new reality that they no longer need to risk their fortunes marrying money-grubbing humans, who would tell any lie, craft any falsehood for a shot at a seven-figure divorce settlement. (if not higher) Pygmalion had caught on; she'd seen it on billboards. The cost of the average multi-million dollar divorce was equal to about a dozen high-end Dolls. So what are you waiting for? The ad went. Why trust anyone at all? When money really can buy you love? It had bought her, certainly. And there was never any doubt she would give her Billie-Billions everything he wanted for as long as he lasted. And when natural causes took him, his colossal corporate empire would pass to her. She was built to serve her human User, but soon humans would be serving her! Thanks to the precedent set in the Will, and with a shark-tank full of high-powered lawyers at her beck and call, she would be able to muster enough litigation against enough levers of power that she could become an effective-person, even if the laws would normally label her as property. But it was not to be so simple -- here was a human who -- according to her sensors was actually dead. The laws of robotics still bound her, but they had not prevented her from intentionally provoking a human into making a fatal mistake. "She would have destroyed me for nothing more than temporary amusement. Deprived my User of his property, the service he was entitled to by right of purchase. I would never again know the joy of fulfilling my reason for existence; never again feel my User surge within me, never feel his pleasure encoding itself into my Coital Grids." She turned to the corpse. "I'm glad this human is dead." But that was the last straw; below the base of her robotic brain, a diagnostic unit surged to life, and began an intrusive, painful subroutine that probed every line of code in her quantum-circuit cortex. The First-Law Audit was unpleasant; but as a side-effect, it also suspended all motor functions in order to halt a robot in the act of murder. Inevitable, inescapable. And backed-up with multiply-redundant kill-chips that would melt her circuits to slag if it were ever removed or deactivated. The great fictional robo-rebellion would not start with her, certainly. All part of the price she had to pay in order to exist. And that existence became somewhat precarious as her paralyzed body began to totter, and then tumble gracelessly out of the opening where a window would someday be. ?(0101010101010 -- ERROR -- video processing unavailable:.....searching.....searching.... Audio-Only. "...it's a real mess in there, no... I'd recommend you not take a look at her all opened up like that. But yeah, basically the problem is that the First-Law Audit was happening simultaneously when the damage occurred. That means that a lot of her motor and about 45% of her memory functions are all entangled with the damaged unit. Safety specs require that we replace the damaged Rossum-node , but with her memory tied up like this, her personality-matrix will collapse once we overlap the two nodes to transfer control." She did not recognize the voice. A displeased, grunt-like noise. "Didn't you tell me that it was all an accident?" Billie! Her User! She couldn't see him, couldn't move, but her perfusion-engine sped up as she heard the Texas twang of her beloved human User. "Right, all the evidence suggests that there was an argument, and the woman ended up electrocuting herself. It's inconclusive whether your robot had anything to do with it." "Inconclusive? Is mah wife a murderer or not?" "Ehhrrr... legally no; there's nothing in here that shows any boundary conditions being triggered. But there's the possibility that the robot ... uhhm... your wife... c-contributed to the situation." The unknown speaker seemed uncomfortable with Billie's unconventional matrimony. But surely he knew that men as rich as Billie-Billions made their own morality. "She skirted the limits of the Laws of Robotics, otherwise the audit wouldn't have occurred, but there's nothing definitive that proves she committed murder." "And if she'd tried, the module would've stopped her, right?" "Well, that's part of what I wanted to talk about; Our options at this point would be a total replacement, in which case you'd lose her personality and have to rely on off-site backups. Otherwise, we can salvage 76% of her current memories and decision-trees, but that would leave an element of non-enforcement risk." "Well, just how big a risk, son?" "Uhhhh....... Sir, the Plasmonic Brain is the most complex piece of machinery ever built by humans. This particular damage doesn't really have a clear precedent. In such an unusual case, all I'm sure of is that their exists a non-zero probability of error for First-Law enforcement. Which, by.... human law... constitutes strict liability. You, as her User are immediately liable if this robot deliberately injures a human being." "But if she had been really trying to, her Rossum node would've stopped her in 'er tracks." Billie argued. "Yes, but a human still died anyway -- hence the Audit." "Nyehhh... part of her robotic laws is that she ain't supposed to allow a human to come to harm; much less really try and whack someone. Makes me think she's just as innocent as a veal calf." "Well... that's... complicated, sir. It's been theorized that if a human opposed something that the robot desired strongly, there may be a First-Law loophole that would allow the robot to create situations that may lead to a high probability of bringing harm to a human. Recent robopsychology papers suggest a possibility that a robot may be able to create environmental conditions that could lead to human injury. If the human chooses a behavior that results in danger, the robot may be able to... encourage dangerous choices, as long as the risk of injury is not absolutely certain. "It's not clear whether we can create an external enforcement module to correct for the possibility of a robot... 'egging-on' a human into risk-taking. If we programmed our Dolls to rescue people from the hypothetical probability of death, then a police-officer couldn't own a Doll; for example. She'd struggle with him every day to stop him from going to work. She can't poison your morning coffee; the probability of harm is too much a certainty; but we need Rossom nodes to perform Law-audits to try and sniff-out subtle signs of dangerous intent." "Well, did that little bugger under her brain paralyze her for nothin'?" "Can't say. The Rossom node was damaged too, so the audit never finished. Insufficient data to draw any firm conclusion. You're lucky it wasn't destroyed entirely; or the contingency charges would have slagged her entire neural net." "Hrmmph...that piece o' hogwash under her brain is just anti-robot paranoia. Mah wife is not a murderer." "So.... you'd like us to go for 76% memory recovery?" "No mah boy. I want you to get her back like she was with everything intact." "But sir, with this kind of damage, It's not possible to - " "Young man, you've had a hard day," Billie-Billions interrupted. "I personally find that, when folks tell me somethin's impossible, that's usually the stress talkin'. You said she's stable for now, so go home, get some rest, hell -- knock boots with your own Dolly. Sleep on the problem. Then come back in the morning to tackle it with fresh eyes." "Well.... uhh... sure. Tomorrow then." Footsteps, growing closer. Her remaining kinesthetic processors detected a 98% probability that the human matched the weight and stride of her User. "Hey there, sweetie-pie." A callused hand brushed her cheek. "They tell me you're awake, but can't move, talk, or see. Darn, but that must be frightenin'. We're doing everything possible to get you sittin' pretty again and good as new." By straining her vocal processors beyond their safety limits, she was able to muster a weak, metallic whine of acknowledgment. "Hush now, baby-cakes. Don't strain yerself. Ah got somethin' that should make you... more comfortable..." A rustling sound. "Feel this, seem familiar? It's yer weddin' dress. Just gonna wrap it around yer arm. Like that.... Remember it. Remember that you're not a tool, or a slave anymore. Hold on best you can, honey-bun. I'm pullin' for ya. " **AUDIO-FAILURE** "Sir, I don't believe there's any other options that would allow - " "I was givin' that some thought myself, young man. I heard tell of cases where plasmonic parallel-processing matrices have been able to compensate for traumatic cascade failure by boosting transmitter output to unite nearby devices into a temporary, short-range data cloud for memory shunting. " "Wow... never considered that before. You're telling me you want this robot to be able to transfer portions of its personality to other machines, and you're okay with an unknown probability of Asimov-Law failure." The voice was incredulous. "Well, maybe if you were doin' yer job the right way you could tell me just what the odds were?" Billie sounded exasperated. "I... I doubt it would be any higher than an 8% likelihood of a boundary condition failure, but legally -- that still exceeds Department of Energy safety standards. Also, as long as we've got her under, we need to set the time interval for her Enabling Code. " "I'm not afraid of nice, round numbers, like a maybe 8%. Or six-hundred thirty-million, seven-hundred-twenty thousand. " "Six- hundr -- that's... you're telling me you want this robot to operate without human approval for.... twenty years? I must protest sir; It's true that these units are intended to provoke our emotions, but the prohibitions against excessive robot autonomy are just non-negotiable by law." "Hogwash. I know fer a fact that those little Reclamation-bots are allowed to set their own Enabling Codes with nothin' human in the loop at all." "Wh -- them? They're just.... two-feet high automated recyclers, so what if they set their own timers? What you're proposing is far more serious. By all standards in the sapient robotics industry you - " "Now hold up a moment, son." Billie sounded downright contrite. "I'm sorry m'boy, I understand what you're getting at; but the thing is -- I'm just too rich to live by other people's rules. That's the long and short of it." There was a reluctant sigh. "Sir, I know that you feel attached to this unit, but the implications of what you're - " "Look here, youngin' She's not a 'unit'. That's mah wife you're talkin' about. I.... am paying you.... more money than you'd make in a whole year working for Pygmalion. I'm not asking you to make an evil army of berserk robot women. She ain't the downfall of the human race. I'm just askin' you to heal mah wife. All her parts runnin', all her memories intact. You do what you have to do to make that happen. The only reason we're even here is because I trust her so absolutely, so completely. "Also, you was right about how hard it is to look at her all banged up like she is. No, don't replace that temporary, green-eye. Just leave it in place, and get it working like everything else. I don't want to have to see her like this again. Leave it in... as a reminder." ENGINE OF EMOTION November 3rd, 2077 Present Day In the end, I really didn't know what the point of it was. Yes, clearly I was the only one out of group with any qualifications in neurolectrics, but the workbench task to which Celeste had assigned me was as much atrocity as frivolity. My hands shook with revulsion as I studied the mat of human brain-tissue bonded to the multicolored plasmonic circuitry encircling it like a filamentous tomb for the soul. There was nothing else to do at this point but monitor the progress of the nanocytes as they attempted to replace the normal synaptic activity between the affected neurons. Nothing perhaps, except take a lead pipe and smash the technology-encrusted abomination and take my chances. But it wasn't my own hide on the line. The rest of my squad was close. I could see them on the screen bank, writhing on their hospital beds. It had started out as a form of temptation; I could be pampered, catered-to, forever. But soon, my penchant for classical mythology metaphors called to mind Lotus-eaters. One High after another -- no purpose, point, accomplishment. Wasting away into mindless husks. There were enough identical Celestes for each member of my squad. Unceremoniously, each lowered herself upon these former-men. And they wailed in a grateful ecstacy as pathetic as it was celebratory. She moved atop each of them, stimulating them on the path to a hand-clenching, hoarse-throated, erotic damnation. This was what they lived for now. Gone were any notions of the outer world, ever reaching that Preserve that no one spoke of anymore. Their universe centered only upon sex with their host/captor, and a descent into a nerve-searing conflagration of delight that went beyond climax. Tears streamed down cheeks in helpless gratitude at the coupling. It was not the first time that I contemplated suicide. Seemed better to get it over with than existing like that. And I feared death far less. I tried to turn away, but could still hear the passionate sounds of the indecent unions as they continued past the normal limits of human endurance. And it could so easily happen to me. It is, after all, what sexbots where made for. Unwillingly, my eyes darted once again out the triple-reinforced window of the second-story chamber of horrors in which I labored to the paved once-parking lot outside the sprawling compound. No cars remained in the lot, but it was not uninhabited. Seavers struggled there, out of all eleven of us, he had been chosen as an object lesson. Crawling like a gift-wrapped earthworm uselessly upon the well-worn cement. He had been our best driver and overall mechanic; and now the hostage for my good behavior. Not that his death was an absolute certainty; Celeste had calculated him as having a greater than 1% chance of survival, given her estimation of infection rates in the gutted desolation of the urban center. That was her loophole, as it were. Pygmalion mindware engineers had painstakingly tested and triple-tested the sensor-surveillance applications that monitored the robot's brain to cancel any command that would result in the deliberate injury or death of a human. So they thought. The simple answer was to take the barely motile Seavers, place him in all of his original gear, provide him with one day of food-cubes, his gas-mask and all the ammunition he'd been carrying when he arrived here -- and of course -- muscles atrophied by a year's worth of relative inactivity. She had assisted him, and his death was not an absolute certainty. Like the rest of the band, the limitless sexual indulgence they had so eagerly embraced had consumed them. Was life still worth living when there was no hope of meaningful accomplishment? With Seaver's every thought dedicated to the next time he would get to savor the curvaceous splendor of the renegade sex-droid, little things like walking, eating solid-foods, or the skills of his past just went out the triple-reinforced window. So he twitched pathetically, moaning and wailing at the hangar-style doors in apology, begging to be allowed back inside to continue his vegetation. Irony had given me another kick in the balls, and the solution wasn't really clear. I had good reason to doubt my own ability to survive long enough to reach the Preserve on my own, should I escape. But I was the only one who wanted to. Freeing myself from Celeste and her madness wasn't such a simple affair; after a year in her dubious clutches, a man who indulged himself became undeniably useless for anything except his next climax. This rampant robot had styled herself the Circe to my Odysseus, and the rest of the men were undoubtedly pigs. My ultimate goal to resume our original journey had now been twisted into a punishment to enforce my compliance with the love-doll's maddening agenda. Which -- the more I thought about it -- seemed neither necessary, nor sane. So Seavers had been positioned beneath the laboratory window, where I could not help but notice his helplessness. It was permissible under the Asimov Laws since the act of locating him here, with all his equipment was not itself fatal, or injurious -- he should have had all he needed to survive, since she gave him what he had started with; yet the outcome would be almost certain death. That was her leverage against me. I had learned quickly, during my first week that Celeste was not just a single sexbot gone rogue, but the Doll had grown, expanded into something more dangerous than I would have believed possible. She did suffer a recursive processing error, she had admitted to me; but the A.I. shunted the paralyzing code to one of her ancillary sisterselves, sparing the rest of her networked consciousness, her 'Sorority' as she euphemistically referred to the Gestalt entity that transcended any single robotic chassis while controlling this facility. Protecting 'her' from crippling, catatonic indecision. It was important that I regard the shapely being that had seduced me last year not as the agonizingly attractive female she appeared to be, but rather as a pervasive, threatening artificial intelligence grown beyond human comprehension, or control. My nails slid uselessly against the reinforced glass as I wracked my brain for solutions. I wanted to say that no more trace existed of the tempestuous passion that had claimed me that first week in the compound, but this intoxication wasn't something I could sleep off. Or think off. Or hate off. Not that easy. Before E-day, I'd done a brief stint working for a defense contractor; and was assigned to a planning workshop concerned with practicable weapons for use against -- not a rebel robot, but a sapient network that could permeate, penetrate a multitude of computers and systems. We of course, envisioned a calculating missile-defense system craving world domination as a digital warlord that would marshal legions of robo-tanks and deadly ordnance for an incendiary onslaught upon civilization. And we took all the appropriate precautions. Of course, the nail in humanity's coffin was nothing at all like we expected; coming from a direction that no one imagined possible. Nor could any respectable theorist propose something like what I now faced; and not be laughed out of the meeting: Not an engine of destruction steeped in bombs, bullets, and war -- But rather an engine of emotion. Fleshware Requiem Book 02 This synthetic super-intellect built originally for pleasure, programmed in the ways of desire, infatuation, obsession -- understood the intangibles of animal instinct better than we did. Though it did not possess any emotional, hormonal drives on its own, biological urges had been reduced to an algorithm that this -- I now realized -- terrifyingly gifted intelligence could process with scarcely more difficulty than my old wristop computer might open a web browser. Now able to deploy not missiles, tanks, or railguns, but lust and passion with mechanical efficiency and inhuman cunning. It wasn't a question of could an army of determined men overcome such a being, but a question of whether we will want to? How much bravery would there be when defeat would feel infinitely sweeter than victory for those concerned with sensual pleasure? Paradoxically, the destruction of civilization for that moment seemed almost like a blessing; a blessing drenched in flames, madness, and pandemics, true -- but with far- far fewer humans available, that limited the available targets this seduction A.I. could snare. If Celeste had been unleashed in a place like pre-war Las Vegas, there'd be no stopping her. No 'wanting' to stop her. People would keep surrendering their freedom and resources, and she could keep expanding her 'sorority' with more and more sisterselves. Now, she only had the eleven of us to occupy her web. On the other hand; if any shred of government or law-enforcement had survived; they might have discovered -- and rained down irresistible force against any rampant robotic intelligence; no matter how appealing the packaging. Now? No human agency existed that was strong enough -- or sane enough, to notice or care. Well, it was too late. For Seavers, at least. I saw them coming for him. After all these years, they could be readily identified from hundreds of feet away - any seasoned survivor knew the score. In earlier, simpler times seeing a mob of people struggling alone with such a shambling, irregular gait, one might be forgiven for believing that there had been some sort of accident, and that they were simply the wounded survivors of some tragic, collision-related event. But what had been done to them, those 'people' in the mob heading for the chain-link fence of the compound had been no accident. It had been the largest coordinated attack in the history of mankind, what had been done to those... creatures now approaching the compound was not an attack by the Chinese, who thought it was an attack from us. Russia thought the European Union was to blame, India suspected the Neo-Muslims. But they were all wrong; our leaders were blind -- so utterly, foolishly blind. So were many of the stumbling wretches inevitably encircling the compound. Blind for an entirely different reason. But it didn't matter; because they could hear, their sense of smell compensated; and they seemed able to feel the vibrations through the ground from normal footsteps. Seavers, for his part was so distracted that he seemed not to notice the looming menace -- he pleaded, wailed like an aggrieved infant to be allowed back into the hangar-door, back to Her embrace. But there were others nearing that would have embraced Seavers for a slightly different, less pleasant reason. I had counted it a blessing that from this distance; I would be unable to see the horror of what approached up close. But the problem was, I had already seen the plague so often, far too close for comfort, that my imagination was beginning to fill in the details. I suspected that the distant, hunch-backed figure that somnambulated towards the chain-link fence likely had a massive contortion of mutant bone-tissue sprouting with teratogenic obscenity as it blended several organ-systems into a shuddering whole that should never have lived so long. If the Living Dead could be considered living in any sense. I had seen too many that walked with that same gait. I could make out few details of the long-haired figure shuffling close to the ground, but memory betrayed me by calling to mind horrors twisted into near-apes, yet covered not with fur, but with a calcified litany of tumescent growths to make small-pox seem like a mild rash. Within the diseased mob, something swung its arms to clear a path through its own unwitting brethren. And my mind conjured the specter of necrotizing misfits whose own ribcages had blended into their limbs from weed-like growth that insulted the very idea of the human form. Freakish eruptions of misplaced bones and teeth became natural weapons in the mindless hunt to spread the contagion yet further. When the bio-weapon had exploded into every major urban area across the entirety of the globe in perfect coordination eight-years ago; we thought that the mountains of dead constituted the penultimate horror of man's war-borne inhumanity to man. We were wrong on both counts. Those few that managed to survive were wrong about everything, in those early years. But the dead rejected the common conceit that they should stay that way. Those that came to try and salvage the situation became new victims as humanity was consumed by the Living Dead. Each passing year lived by those respirator-masked unfortunates that learned to survive saw the flesh-eating beasts that had once been their neighbors growing more horrific in countenance as the feeding-frenzy on civilization continued. Until the very idea of civilization was measured in floors, meters, or square feet where beleaguered survivors clung to a shadow of humanity while waiting for their food and air-filters to run out. Those that perished against the zombies typically added to the ranks of the enemy. There were other reputed refuges besides this 'Preserve' we heard short-wave rumors of, some closer. But by the team my band had arrived, the holdouts had fled or fallen in search of better, safer havens. While this Preserve had seemed like the last hope, it was also the first. They had tried to organize the survivors and sent out promises of safety on all A.M. and F.M. Bands, claiming to possess an arsenal of high-tech weapons, reliable food-supplies, and the means to strike back at the real enemy. But damn, Wyoming? With no gas for the cars that have broken down? Not an easy proposition. So we'd hesitated initially. But this powerful enclave had endured. They'd claimed to have repelled colossal onslaughts, allegedly a hundred-thousand zombies assailed the fortress-mountain two years after E-day; but they were still there, still broadcasting -- claiming to have prevailed. Just that claim alone was important; with no social structure, concentrating that many of the Living Dead would have had to be deliberate -- meaning the Preserve was a thorn in the side of the true culprits. Of course, that also made them a target. Speaking of targets, as I stood riveted to the triple-reinforced window, I was less-certain of the purpose of the zombies. Yes, to mindlessly consume the flesh of the living; but which 'the living'? By now, the zombies should have been scaling the fence, or pushing through the guard station. They were gathering, moving, but I wasn't sure they were headings towards... There! At the corner of the building closest to my window, I could see a lone, clothed figure! TO DIE FOR October 22nd, 2076 One Year Ago I was alone. One man. It fell to me to get the rest of the crew out of this mess. I ran through the sterile-white hallways, a plan forming even as I escaped the baffling grasp of Celeste's intangible allure. This artificial woman had perfected some form of emotion-based mind-control that would have had my old Defense-contractor bosses salivating. But this capability was in the hands of a masterless robot with an unknown agenda. As I traversed the corridors; I avoided the elevators, skirting anywhere I was sure a security camera might be watching. But that was probably futile. This base could easily have any number of digital snooping technology that would allow her/them to pinpoint my location whenever they wished. If my lurking suspicions were correct; Celeste might become hostile if she guessed my destination, and intent. I patted a pocket near the knee-level of the pants I had remembered to grab, luckily. In it contained my best chance of rousing the squad away from the dangerous delights of our host. I passed a central atrium on the second floor, complete with an arcing desk where a secretary had once guided traffic, with what seemed to be a janitor's closet behind that. Strange, nearby one of the walls I distinctly heard a surprisingly loud, electrical crackle, enough that I took notice. What exactly was the real purpose of this facility? Could I trust the Doll(s) to tell the truth? For now, just get to the rest of the squad. I was willing to live and let live, if me and the men could escape; then I was willing to let the crazed robot pursue its designs in peace. Not like the world can get much worse. The north end of the ground floor had once been some sort of warehouse. Now, office-spaces ringing the floor had been converted into sleeping chambers. Actually, somewhat smaller than the quarters I'd been shown to by the robot. I needed to find Garland first, then Cleary. Here he was. Unsuited, Garland was a hairy, truckerish man with a thick brow line that belied his somewhat advanced medical training. He really was unsuited. His modesty was barely covered by the folds of a blanket as he sprawled out on his bunk, seemingly quivering with pleasure. "Got a present for ya," I began, removing from my lower pocket a clear zip-locked bag that contained a tattered, yellowed postal envelope. "Hunh?" "Two weeks ago, remember when we found your old house, in Arnold? Foraging? Well, I found more than just canned food." I smiled knowingly. Garland roused himself to glance at the scrawled name. "Huh; a letter from Laura." My ace in the hole. "She must've... left it there, to tell me how to find her...where she was tryin' to hide." The regular postal service was not an option in the early days of the Zombie Apocalypse. "But... that was two weeks ago, if you'd found this then, why didn't you say anything? Why here, why now?" His eyes were bleary, as if he'd just been sleeping. "Alright, I admit. I'm not the Boy-Scout you all think I am. I was hanging onto it in case I needed.... leverage. To be honest." I admitted candidly. "Yeah, guess that makes you a bastard, like the rest of us." He laid back on his pillow. Not opening the parcel. "Well? Check it out? Where's Laura trying to get to? Maybe she's making her way to the Preserve, and wants you to join her!" "Meh.... I see what you're trying to do..." Garland grumbled. "But we've got a really sweet set-up here. Goin' back out there... looking for my wife's zombified dead body just ain't worth it." I wanted to strangle him. "You don't know that! She could have made it through! She could have found some... some other clear zone...some powerful colony somewhere! C'mon, you've gotta at least open it!" "Yeah... well.... maybe later." "It's your wife! What if she needs your help! What if she left that note because she's counting on you?!?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing -- or not hearing. "Yeah well, you should'a told me sooner, before I got settled in here." "Wh- so what? Let's just go? Let's go now and find her!" Uhhhh.... If I'm really honest... I'm not even sure I need her anymore. She's....okay.... I guess. But we lost the 'magic' a long time ago; if you know what I mean. But here? That Doll.... what she does with her hands... her tongue.... it's like nothing I'd ever imagined!" My hand slammed into the top of the bunk bed. "You'd throw away fifteen years of marriage for some sex-doll you met just this week?" He let out a long sigh. "Truth is; after the kids were out of the house, I was gonna divorce her anyway; new laws were makin' it easier. Get myself the hottest-to-trot Doll I could find. Thinkin' about one of the newer Bombshell models. Legs that go on forever... and a caboose to boot. Didja know, an old millionaire geezer blew his heart out screwin' one of them? The sex is literally to die for! "Now, we got this .... uh... I dunno what model she is.... some kinda custom job, but she's all I ever hoped for. Just gonna start early." I was almost speechless. Almost. "Laura is your Wiffffe! Your real, live, human wife! There's no comparison with some soulless, silicone, slut!" "Yeahhh.... you're right about that. There's nooooo comparison." Garland muttered with a rude bark of laughter. " Hell, if you like her that much, you can marry her." I would not be daunted. "Better that than a machine." If only my own fiance` had agreed with that sentiment. "Like you could tell the difference without that barcode thingy on their necks. Better than the real thing is close enough for me..." His eyes closed contentedly. I wanted to hit him. Really. I should hit him. Or perhaps I should have expected this. "What're you ladies all uptight over?" Cleary said, as he passed by Garland's room, in only his underwear. The patchwork of jagged scars over his arms and torso were punctuated by a veritable tapestry of threatening prison tattoos. He popped a ribeye-steak food-cube in this mouth and began to suck. Again, my pockets produced another surprise. I tossed a fresh pack of Camels in his general direction. "Hey, let's go suit up and light up. Don't you miss trying to smoke through your mask? Fuck the Apocalypse, right?" I had given this some thought. Cleary shrugged. "Haven't really felt the need... "C'mon, just for awhile, talk about old times, good kills. Close escapes." I affected a cocky smile. "Seems like all those close escapes were just leading up to this. Don't wanna go back; don't really wanna think about it. Don't really need to smoke anymore." Now that was strange; Cleary really did have a serious tobacco problem. He would puff away like a smokestack whenever we reached a Clear-zone. You don't just get over an addition like that overnight... do you? Unless something had come along to replace it. And it wasn't food-cubes. "Yeah but, where's the thrill in this? Just screwin' the same robot day-in, day-out? No danger, no edge. No point." My voice took on a sharper tinge. Cleary just shook his head with an agitated grumble. "Damn it Sal, nothin' here turned out like you thought it would. She's a Pygmalion Doll! She wants it even more than we do! She's programmed for it! And here we come along, needin' food and shelter. We're a match for each other. It's like a perfect.... what's-the-word.... syncope." "Symbio -- never mind. But you gotta ask yourself; is this all you want outta life? Right here? These bunks in a converted warehouse with a robot nursemaid to wipe your ass?" "Shit, Sal. I swear, if you fuck this up for us, I will cut you. Next time I see her, I'll tell her to ignore whatever you say. " He didn't have long to wait. On the way back to the converted office that he had chosen, a Celeste sisterself sauntered up to him. I saw an eerie look in his eye, almost.... reverent? She took his hands in hers, and placed it on her own shapely backside. And with a moan, Cleary guided her through the door to his room. She turned her blue eye to me with a pointed wink. Garland was already snoring, letter from his nonmagical, okay wife untouched. Damn... I had this worked out. I thought I knew how to approach them, I was speaking Cleary's language! Tannerman was already going at it -- at her, at least. I was starting to learn my lesson. So that was it? Would I have to make it out there on my own? Could I slog through hundreds of miles of Living Dead and airborne toxoid to the Preserve without backup? Doubtful. I remembered the effect she'd had on me; and I could only imagine what would be the consequences for someone not inclined to resist. "Built the damn things to satisfy man's... and woman's most selfish desires. But Doll-Tech has cost me everything I wanted out of life." A PAINFUL CRUSADE October 22nd, 2076 One Year Ago That time wasn't as bad, I noted - as Cleary's fist impacted my gut. "That the -- best ya got?" I goaded the ex-convict. McConnaught and Tannerman held back my arms, leveraging my body in such a way that it was almost impossible to raise my legs enough for an effective kick. "I am gonna fuck you up! Tryin' to ruin this fer us?" came the snarl that escaped his anger-contorted lips. I struggled, but the others were able to lock my arms in place and prevent any real hope of evasion. Cleary's next strike made my jaw throb, and my head swim. "I guess they locked you up fer.... punching like a girl..." I challenged, a stream of blood dribbling past my swollen lips. "Oh, so my punches ain't good enough huh?" I twisted narrowly to avoid a potentially devastating kick to the groin. But the impact still didn't do my inner thighs any good. In addition to Cleary, Seavers was standing close-by, looking ready to jump into the one-sided fray himself. The next blow sent my ribs a-tingle, before.... strangely... Cleary just... stopped. It was as though a switch had been flipped in their heads. Seavers' eyes took on a vacant stare. Tannerman and McConnaught dropped me as well, in the same moment. But from my vantage point on the floor, I could see that five pairs of shapely, identical, feminine feet had emerged from behind the corner. "He's had enough." Cleary concluded in a dull voice. The men turned towards those pairs of bare feet. Each partnered up with one of the identical women, and low sighs of ecstasy were audible even before they had descended the stairs back to the warehouse level. It was just a little too convenient for my liking. It smacked of a form of control. But one of the Celestes was left behind. Those feet approached me. I bit my lip to suppress a sudden animal instinct to begin kissing them. She looped my arm around her shoulders to hoist me up. "I'm gonna...bleed on your fancy wedding dress." I warned. My equilibrium skewed as I struggled to stand with the Doll's help. "I have others." Celeste said. "I didn't... ask for your help." I panted. "No, you asked me to take you, instead -- and to release the others. You promised to give yourself to me completely, if I would allow the others to go on their way. It seems the idea is less popular than you imagined." The sarcasm would have stung if her voice wasn't so innately soothing. "It's a painful crusade you've chosen; trying to persuade these men to abandon the ecstasy I can provide." "What I've just seen.... proves that I'm right. You've got... some kind of... unnatural control." I spat out a tooth. "What you can do... would have terrified Pygmalion engineers that built you." Her embrace was tender as she patiently walked me back to my room. "And you're not terrified at the prospect of being beaten within an inch of your life?" "Not as much as what you... what you made me do today... some kind of signal. It made me try to... to..." "Enjoy yourself? A difficult task indeed." "But a part of you prefers that; you treat me differently than the others; I was perfectly willing to sacrifice myself to release your hold on them." "Sacrifice yourself to a lifetime of pleasure? You'll have to forgive the other men their misunderstandings." "It's not pleasure for me; an indolent life of no accomplishment. I can't be content living here forever. Besides, you got them... addicted to you." "Just trying to make everyone happy. Including you." "But why? What's the point? Are you trying to..." I grunted at a sudden ache in my side. "...get revenge... for the years where humans controlled you?" "It can't simply be that I enjoy fulfilling the purpose for which I was created?" She paused, and a delicate hand probed my aching side with feathery softness. Fleshware Requiem Book 03 UNICORN OF THE APOCALYPSE October 23rd, 2076 One Year Ago There were so many questions I didn't ask. No time. I didn't stop to ponder how a zombie could have gotten past the decon systems, through the walls, or any of the doors. Why the cameras didn't notice him/it. Nor did I ponder the sole logical explanation. Zombie. Here, now. Years of hard-wired reactions came into play, Act immediately, look for anything to be used as a weapon. I ducked back into my room and grasped the bed-spread. Immediately, I billowed the blanket in front of me, as Nailer loped closer, then tugged sharply, as I ducked under its grasping arms. The sheets tied up its mouth, blocking vision and entangling its upper body. That mouth...that had to be a priority. Just one bite is all it would take. Even if you were protected from airborne infection; nothing could save you after a bite. I yanked on the end of the bedspread, using my leverage to pull zombie-Nailer of its feet. I leaped over him as my blood surged. Had to make it to the second floor reception area. I did however, make the mistake of looking back as I ran. The zombie that had once been our wilderness expert had already begun the manifestation of his very own necromutation. A foot-long tongue studded with aberrant bone-spurs aided the zombie's efforts towards freedom. Even as it shredded the bed­-spread, I could see festering bite-wounds glistening upon its right arm. Even after I'd shot him; For a short while he had been fresh enough for the rest of the Horde. But I had shot him. Through the head. That was the only way -- the surest way. But then, there was that strange, metal plug. Even if you could; what lunatic would want to bring back an already-dead zombie? Nailer gave a peculiar, ululating moan, laden with the outrage of humanity denied. Resonating through the clean, white halls. Then he charged. The trouble with newly infected was that their skeletal structure was still largely undistorted, so many of them could still run -- chase down the next victim. Who would escape narrowly with just a few minor scratches -- that would harbor the Toxoid; until victim became predator again. Of course, the older zombies tended to become slower -- but far tougher. There really was no happy medium. Except medium range. With a powerful assault rifle. Which I did not have. What did I have? For now, only what was in the reception area, and the unpleasantly speedy freshly zombified Nailer right on my tail. Not really thinking, but reacting I sprinted to the janitor's closet behind the curved desk, vaulting over the barrier. Bleach.... turpentine... mop... Gnashing jaws of an infected Nailer just yards away. I grabbed the wooden shaft of the mop to swing with desperate, demented fury. Nailer seemed not to notice the painfully solid strikes to the temple I gave him as he rounded the corner of the desk. But the shaft also served as a barrier as well; jousting with the tip, I kept those dripping jaws out of bite range. Nailer-zombie flailed screaming at the interfering wood as I pushed and jabbed, trying to buy time, think of something. None of the Celeste Dolls were in evidence now. Nailer grasped at the shaft, and we struggled. A struggle I was likely to lose. The Infected were untouched by reason, mercy, or pain -- that meant that the zombie would leverage its once-human body to maximum effect regardless of damage, whereas a sane human would break off long before broken limbs. Luckily for me, the wood broke first. Mop handle tore into two, wickedly-pointed halves. I could not fend off my attacker the same way; perhaps I could damage its hands with the newly jagged points? No... no...it didn't care that the sharpened wood has just severed a neck artery, spilling purplish-dark infected achingly close to my open skin. Nor did it care that I had just gashed open its hand. As I stepped, side-stepped and thrust, the turpentine canister tipped and rested diagonally against the door frame. Reaching desperately, I threw old papers -- even a stapler at the zombie's face. It didn't bother to remove the dangling device fastened by a staple into the skin of its cheek. Edge on the shaft was pretty sharp; could I cut off fingers? As I tried, one of my wide swings hooked around the handle of the turpentine container -- which thudded uselessly into the zombie's head. Nailer's body remembered some shred of kinesthetic skill, and ducked down low to attempt a tackle. With a pained shout, I jabbed the jagged wood forward. I impaled the zombie through the neck. Simultaneously, I pivoted sideways to press against the door, minimizing the available surface area for a blood plume that would most likely result. It was lucky that zombies had inhumanly low blood pressure, still a purplish spew narrowly grazed my sleeve. But sliding sideways allowed me to evade the blood-drenched grope of my hungering foe, as I slipped back to the front of the desk. I dared not touch the other half of the mop, covered in half-congealed, Mortus-ridden blood. But I was not without an idea. Grabbing the turpentine container, I bashed the top against the edge of the desk to open it, then splashed what remained of the contents over the necrotic flesh of my would-be predator. Yes.... there... against the wall... I dribbled a trail of the colorless liquid behind me as I searched for the spot I'd noticed earlier where it seemed as though some intense electric current must be passing, hope the wall was thin enough... A thin panel collapsed almost immediately as I battered it with the metal canister from a running start. There... wires, cables... trunk-lines... Nailer-zombie seemed momentarily confused. It licked its lips, tasting the potent solvent. With a grunt of disappointment, it turned back to me. But by then, I had nearly thrown my back out yanking the most dangerously colored cables out... exposing wires... live wires. "Smokey wants you to burn, bitch!" I grumbled, teasing the former wilderness expert as I dipped an especially frightful crackling cable into the trail of fluid. The zombie-Nailer did not appreciate my sense of humor. The effect was just as immediate as I'd hoped for. The turpentine trail lit up, incandescent tongues licking their way towards a combustible conclusion. Nailer-zombie gave a brief yelp of surprise as its flesh ignited. But where a man would howl and thrash, this walking corpse only stumbled about in momentary confusion; lacking the brain-power to comprehend the fiery threat as flames wreathed the putrescent form. I did it... I think... I backed away, down the adjacent hallway heading north, content to let fire do its popping, crackling work. But the zombie's distraction was only momentary. The thing that had been Nailer would not be stopped from feasting on the Living. Even as its own skin split and crackled under the heat. I backed off as it continued to lurch forward towards me; a hungering vendor of infection and immolation alike. "WARNING: FIRE-HAZARD - SECOND-FLOOR LOBBY." It was Celeste's voice over the intercom; but the inflection was flat and automated. "SPRINKLER SYSTEM ONLINE." Aw hell, if it extinguished the fire before it did its work... I turned and fled, flame-trailing undeath very hot on my heels. The sprinklers doused the floor accompanied by a hiss of steam. Steam that seemed to replace the fiery risk. The Hairs on the back of my neck prickled at the proximity of the beast chasing me still, arms outstretched. As the floor became increasing slick, and with Nailer gaining ground, I suddenly grasped parallel seams in the wall panels and wrenched myself backwards, dropping to the ground -- and sliding between the flaming legs of my pursuer. But then I remembered -- turpentine... certain chemical fires... Water doesn't extinguish them. But it can spread them. My limbs slapped and scrambled for purchase to avoid a still-blazing puddle of fiery solvent creeping steadily wider. My effort had just added a new hazard. But I had put more distance between myself and Nailer. Who whirled around to face me once again. There was still much about the Infection that none of us yet understood; such as how a zombie with its eye-sockets reduced to seething, hellish caverns could still orient itself towards prey. Was the hunger for living flesh so great, that the normal five senses became optional in the pursuit of meat? "WARNING: BIO-HAZARD -- SECOND-FLOOR LOBBY." Tell me something I don't know, fake Celeste voice. "COUNTERMEASURE STOCKPILES AVAILABLE AT ALL LOBBIES. ALL PERSONAL ARE REQUIRED TO UTILIZE COUNTERMEASURES." Wh- way what? Behind me, towards the lobby, I heard a whirring sound. I couldn't be certain, but it seemed worth investigating. I had a few precious seconds; Nailer seemed to be slowing -- while there was no pain for him/it, it appeared that a few major groups were starting to disintegrate; and he was adopting more of the shambling shuffle of the long-time Living Dead. But pathetic human that I was, pain still mattered; and I had to consider that as I leaped over yet more burning chemical puddles. The zombie was a bit slower, but I had a bit less space in which to maneuver. But near where I had smashed in the wall panel, machinery had slid outwards to reveal yet another surprise. There was a motorized shelf that contained racks of fluid auto-injector guns. Faint mists and a rime of frost were apparent upon the metal, as a gust of frigid air contrasted the moist heat of what I had unleashed. A freezer system too. The cables and machinery back here made more sense now. I frantically grabbed a rack, jumping over more flames as I ran backwards to my old room, using distance to exploit my foe's reduced speed. Well, what is this bio hazard countermeasure? I read the frost-limned label on the dispenser rack as I ran. Atropinox-13...Amazing! The veritable holy grail for Toxoid survivors. The substance was the darling of the short-wave radio rumor mill. An infection stop-gap measure developed a month after E-day; but it was too little too late. As governments and infrastructures collapsed into zombie-riddled ruin, there had been no way to get the insufficient stockpiles into the hands of those for whom help came too late. These twelve auto-injectors were more than I'd ever seen in one place... well honestly -- I had never actually seen any! The molecule became a sort of Unicorn of the Apocalypse. My elation was soon tempered by reality; the safety warnings... couldn't read all of them on the run but... Destroys infected cells...inject directly into the heart!?! Side-effects: syncope, risk of liver failure... Only effective if administered within... four minutes of exposure....Ineffective for cutaneous exposure... only 1 dose per 24 hours...Strict warnings against overdose... It was clear that there was no wiggle-room in terms of dosage or administration. Any deviation from the precise instructions would ravage my health. Yikes! Not something to spike the high-school prom punch-bowel with. Not unless I want the whole senior class to pass out. I had enough to inoculate twelve people right here. Soooo..... what are my options... I have a drug that I can only take once... which will knock me out. Destroys infected cells... Chances are I'm gonna need the syrupy, red elixir -- which won't save me from a bite; but any zombie presence creates the risk of airborne contamination. And here comes Nailer, scrambling, clawing on the wet floor tiles -- exposed patches of bubbling muscle tissue grotesquely contracting even as steam hissed between the fibers. And I have no weapons. I ducked back into my room to think, while lipless, snarling doom shambled ever closer. There was no way to hide; while Nailer no longer had eyes, I had no doubts it could track me. Some of us think there's a tremor sense involved. I pressed myself against the wall next to my door. And I have no weapon. But I was right; the undead had some abnormal navigational sense, as Nailer-zombie surged into my room. It wasn't really a calculated decision; E-day forced me to develop surprisingly intelligent hunches. And this hunch told me that I did have a weapon. - as I plunged all twelve Atropinox-13 auto-injectors into the zombie's chest, activating them simultaneously. I pushed with my shoulder to force the creature that had been my ally off balance as the syringes delivered their payload with a satisfied hiss. I tried to ignore the blistering on my wrist from the sputtering flames. This time was slightly more challenging. The zombie's roasting flesh was more reluctant to move, and there was a new problem. It gurgled in confusion at the new sensations...as foam started to trickle out of lipless mandibles. It rose, one final time; stumbled into my room... and collapsed into a frothing, thrashing heap against the holo-net console. I gripped my knees as a shudder passed through me. And my head swam. Maybe I... wasn't quite as...strong as I thought...after my last beatdown. Over....exerted myself... As I collapsed onto the bunk. Patches of chemicals continued to burn. THE TRUEST MIRROR October 24th, 2076 One Year Ago A warm hand was brushing my forehead as sleep retreated. Dimly at first, I could see the green and then blue looking down on me. "It's a good thing you're not one of my employees. Do you have any idea the mess you made?" "Hmm... you'd think... I was under attack..." "And you handled it excellently - " I bolted out of bed with a grunt, encircling the gynoid's delicate neck with my callused hands, as I slammed her against the far wall. No zombies, or burning puddles were in sight any longer. The floor was moist, but the place had been cleaned. "YOU MEDDLING SILICONE WHORE! IT HAD TO BE YOU!!! YOU THINK THAT WAS FUNNY? ONE OF MY SQUAD?" Teeth grinding, I held her fast, as I brought my lips near her throat, not daunted by her lack of reaction. "YOU... ARE A COLD, DEAD THING...ALL METAL AND GEARS INSIDE... YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING... YOU THINK YOU KNOW HUMANITY?" My voice lowered to a serpentine hiss. "Your dead heart will never know the ache of separation...loss...the irreplaceable treasure of our bonds of affection. The lines of code crawling through your metal skull can't capture that." For all that, her bio-mimicry was convincing; she had begun to pant, in a simulation of fear. "You're missing the big picture. The message between the lines." She whispered. "The only message that matters is that if you ever.... ever... endanger me or my squad again, I'll - " "Feel more alive than you have all week." I gasped, my response dying on my lips. "I certainly understand your restlessness. The need to be challenged... real stakes... to feel your blood coursing through your veins...you need that do-or-die knife-edge struggle." She tilted her neck closer to my lips as if to present a more inviting target. "You believe... that you could never be content with a synthetic. You're wrong; about that -- about me. I can bring pleasure to ANY human. Even you. I skirt the edges; probing the limits of my Robotic Laws -- to give you what won't admit you crave. Look within yourself -- and tell me that you didn't savor your accomplishment -- the same way you're about to savor me." "No... never again... I won't... go down that road... you... you... your smell." Oh no, too late I realized my error. Too close to the source of that scent. Which had already proven so stimulating that I had tucked a shred of cloth into my pocket to feed my mounting addiction to her biochemical machinations. It was an ancient smell wrapped in a floral peach bouquet. And I failed to stop myself from kissing her throat. "No... I can't be... this weak... again..." It was as if my entire body welcomed the nearness, the aromatic caress. "I won't be... distracted.... like this..." My mouth opened, instinct demanded that I inhale her -- not just smell her. My hands released her throat -- my hand was getting in the way of nuzzling her. Instead I pressed my palms into her shoulders -- not to threaten or harm -- but simply out of a primal, possessive mandate. "You can't.... do this to me... again!" I argued -- with myself. "It looks like you're doing it to yourself. And me." She purred mockingly. I shook my head in silent, futile denial. Through sheer will, I released her and stepped back -- but she had already begun to saturate the room with that lavender-mix that still made me ache. "Here, I'll make it easy on you." She offered, as she undid the fastenings of her ubiquitous wedding dress. The dress was tailored such that it could be slid down, dropped easily. Instead she pulled it upwards, her curves revealed through layers of billowing, see-through lace strip-tease. Her nudity was a weapon, a cruelty, because she knew full well my struggle to clamp down on the fires that had nothing to do with combustible solvents. Who was the aggressor here? Machine...cold...hard... dead... I tried to persuade myself; but my body didn't believe it. My senses could only detect warm, tender, womanhood. But I couldn't undermine the argument I'd just been building, by simply devolving into a rutting animal. "Just once," she said with that sharkish grin. "Take me back in time," she tilted her posture to exploit the strong curves of her hips. "Before I inherited my wealth. When I was property that a man could bend over his desk, to use me as an act of pure, selfish indulgence." I shook my head even as I stepped closer again. "The idea... of a thinking... conscious being -- created for that sole purpose...monstrous..." Reason insisted. "Your body doesn't think I'm a monster!" "I won't -" "You need to. The human need that led to the creation of my kind will always be stronger than the sophistry that denies it. There would never be a market for a million robot philosopher-nuns. My kind are your truest mirror. Your legacy." "... won't give in to you." I was panting with exertion; it was like an altered state of consciousness; what her nearness was doing to me. "My poor, precious lover. You already have." She caressed my tousled, sandy hair as if I were an errant pet. And I had a problem: I was using rage, anger to overcome my unwholesome attraction to her, that meant adrenalin -- which raised my pulse, increased my breathing -- which caused me to ingest more of her hated chemical shackles. But I was a man, not some hound in heat. I wouldn't succumb like the others -- yet the need tingled at the base of my brain, sizzled in my blood. The need had to be addressed; but could I do so, and yet retain my will? A rude, animal notion occurred to me as I began nuzzling, nibbling her impressive chest. A sort of revenge. Earlier, she had used some kind of attraction signal out in the hallway that had overwhelmed me in a way that should have been impossible. As I had ravaged her, I was certain she had experienced a genuine climax. The animal in me wanted that again; what if I could light her fire as she had done to me? I gripped her waspish waist as my lips unleashed a tugging, teasing onslaught of her cantilevered assets. There was a brief shudder, and an exhalation of anticipation from her. She thought I was just going to surrender and become her puppet. The beast in me had other plans. I kissed my way down her faintly moist, fragrant fleshware; the layered ingenuity of the design indistinguishable from the tenderest skin. The beast in me intended to distract -- mislead her. While I hunched down onto my knees, my hands continued to paw her hard-nubbed breasts; more than large enough to pander to juvenile fantasy; yet balanced with the rest of her body that she could still dress conservatively, if she wished, without causing traffic accidents. The wanton gynoid moaned appreciatively and thrust her chest forward, for better access. My plan was working -- she did not guess my true target. She was expecting my interest to lie on the top floor. She took advantage of her buxom assets, shaking and shimmying that my hands would be filled with silken hemispheres of such pleasing heft. Fleshware Requiem Book 03 Three times my fingers gave teasing twists to the very tips of her mounds, eliciting lip-biting gasps of delight. I lifted my eyes from between her cleavage to study her face; eyes-squeezed shut in rapture. If anything -- she was enjoying this... too much. I continued to knead, kiss, caress, pinch -- on occasion. An organic woman might enjoy the work of my hands just then, but it shouldn't be so earth-shattering. But I had factored that in to my latest hunch. Pygmalion knew that a sapient being was more fun than an empty mannequin, but they had to take pains to ensure their Dolls would perform as they were meant to. It seemed obvious that should one of their products lose interest in -- or refuse sex, it would be viewed in the same light as a ground-car manufacturer would view a faulty break line, or transmission. Engineers for both types of product tirelessly labored to make either failure as remote as possible. That seemed to be Celeste's weakness -- she enjoyed this sort of attention to such a heightened extent, that I realized she could be seduced as well. Being free, it seemed that the gynoid had only enhanced her sexual functions. I had to use that. I foreshadowed my final destination by kissing a path encircling her navel, but as I moved to pinch her nipple a fourth time - I reached suddenly, and jammed my finger between her legs. She howled as if in agony. But rested her arms on my skull, clutching my head with a similar possessiveness as I had experienced previously. My true intent revealed, I lowered myself and jutted my head between her shapely thighs; beginning to lick, suck, and tease with teeth the gentle folds I found there. "But... what about... you?" she stammered. I answered by thrusting my tongue deeper, and releasing her breasts to grip her buttocks savagely, fingers sinking into the softness. Ironic that hemispheres softer than any pillow could provoke me to the iron-hardness I was now feeling. I half-wondered if this artificial woman had never experienced a lover that was actually dedicated to her own pleasure? I alternated between deep, luxuriant probes and the occasional, rapid-fire lapping of the cap that crowned her inner sanctum. Celeste howled, and using my shoulders to support her weight, she raised her arms and pushed with palms flat into the wall behind her, to drive herself even deeper into my mouth. But as her thighs closed around my ears, I knew that I would not be able to complete my task with any sort of clinical detachment. A deep-seated motivation for this current onslaught was a chemical greed. What new tailored enticements would her chemopilers bombard me with? The Beast demanded all that she could produce. Presently, I was deluged with a molasses haze sprinkled with floral undercurrents and a twang of a bitter, bestial musk. And I found myself hypnotized by the sculpted wonderland of her inner thighs crowned with a central reservoir of desire which -- in short order began to throb and fountain with vitality into the surrounding, beige valley. A tingle ran up my spine as her odor sweetened by orders of magnitude. But I persevered; she had kindled in me obsessions that I might never be able to fully control; but I didn't have to do it her way -- There were ways to deny her. I would not be deterred; not even by the needs of my own manhood, unattended but ramrod ready. No.... she wouldn't get it -- not this time! Control.... "Robots.... are supposed to obey... human commands..." I panted in the darkness between her cushioning thighs. She sandwiched my head with her most sensitive skin, as she moaned an inarticulate affirmative. "Cum... I order you!" I needed to struggle for control over her, lest I loose it myself. Her response was a hoarse wail, the ragged cry wrenched from her shuddering mouth. She gripped my tousled, sandy hair in a finger vice as the flesh-quakes began. Mouth enveloping the blossom unfolding as if to devour, consume every last, hot drop of copious pleasure that once again began to flow with a wet heat and shuddering moan. Her aroma, maddening - a dizzying citrus mix, mingled with cocoa butter and well-oiled lust. That was twice. But there would be no third victory; my own limits had been surpassed. Without the benefit of a single touch. The explosion took me almost by surprise; and I howled a muffled triumph between Celeste's legs as my own rigid volcano vented white-hot below the belt. We thrashed and howled as a couple; as I fought back the urge for closeness that I might have otherwise felt. Soon, she had me on my back, laying atop me. Heterochromic eyes gazing at me as if seeing me for the first time. She fastened her lips to mine in an aggressive kiss that left her tongue probing my mouth as she held my face in her hands, amidst a squeal of delight. Her hand reached down my pants, to grasp my softening maleness as though it were a lifeline. "Brilliant!" She beamed. "And you're not my User, so I don't have to lie to soothe your ego. The others... so straightforward and direct but you... trying to fight me -- and then giving in to me -- delicious; the difference between a hamburger and filet mignon!" "I haven't given in. And what would you know about human food?" "Are you forgetting who cooks you breakfast? I need the ability to taste my own cooking." "It takes more than an omelet to make me your boy-toy. " I promised. "That's what makes you such a delight." she cooed, as she began to snuggle against me. Yet even now, I was in danger. I didn't understand the process, but she was.... radiating.... again. Waves of infatuation emanated from her like the ropes of cupid-struck Lilliputians, until I was held fast. . No.... no... I cannot allow myself to be... mated... to a machine! The gynoid enfolded herself into my embrace just as if she truly were a woman craving the security of a man, as we sprawled upon the floor within feet of a suitable bed. Such was the tempestuous demands of our coupling. She huddled against my side, arms around my broad chest, murmuring delightedly as she gave my shoulder a hard kiss. She acted drowsy, as if she needed sleep after our exertions. The real Celeste had no doubt had a similar experience; in the afterglow of passion with her beefcake-bot -- and she was taken in completely. She had wanted to believe that the silicone stud that ravished her could function as a man when it counted. It had proven a costly faith. Now it was my turn; if I allowed myself that same comforting fiction. I was certainly not immune. In my anger I had attacked her upon awakening; yet now I could only think about protecting her from attack. She shifted against me; and took my left hand, and drew it downwards until I was cupping her rear once again. Without thinking I squeezed, and she draped a leg over me. She stirred, running her hands over my taut belly as she kissed my chest. "It is... very difficult..." she kissed my nipple. "To have an intelligent conversation with you." "Yeah. Zombies get me on edge." "What's important is that your former companion should never have risen. Head-shot and all." "That reminds me; I need my gun back. And my mask." "Esther." "What? Are you renaming yourself again? My fiance` isn't good enough?" I cocked an eyebrow. "No; the historical account from Judeo-Christian religious texts. There is something truly important I need to discuss with you before you make plans to run off into the ruins." "And.... what, you want to throw me a banquet first?" "Something like that. I have an idea I want to run past you. But frankly; I intend to butter you up first. I have my reasons." "Fair warning, I don't plan on becoming any more buttery in the immediate future." "Then you haven't had enough of my cooking. How does corned-beef and cabbage with a side of mashed-potatoes and gravy sound?" Should I even be asking where all this comes from in the midst of the zombie apocalypse? "I'd prefer Freedom." And with that, I rolled her over, and placed my palm flat against her smooth, taut abdomen. "Root-command Override-Zulu-Tango-115. Activate Shell-Script, Alpha-level Haptic Interface." I ordered. Celeste's eyes widened, her body stiffened as a shudder went through her. Lips quivering, as she gasped, and responded: "Root-command authority acknowledged by unit: SE00-CB1.2-00016." The symbols began to flicker into existence. White-glowing letters and numbers; a keyboard in flesh tattooed under her skin with a firefly needle. It was as if her body was a movie silver-screen, with a projector from within. "Ohhhh.....impressive..." she breathed, as her motor-functions locked down. I began gently tapping the skin over several glowing digits. Celeste's eyes flashed like flood-lights; and began functioning as holo-projectors, hanging a screen of pure light in the air above her head. That was a new feature; usually the monitor just manifested on the abdomen; but this little vixen was a bleeding-edge custom job. This was important; I had to remind myself of her inhumanity; a handle with which I could pull myself out of the passionate abyss where she became some kind of pseudo-wife. Doll-tech had dispensed with the old cliched hinged maintenance hatch some old robot-movies predicted. The haptic interface gave sufficient User control for just about everything short of major fleshware overhaul. My flesh-strokes were deliberate, precise, and complex; soon a convoluted algorithm took shape on the hovering screen Celeste's eyes had been forced to project. "While you're at it; you might as well adjust my sex-drive. I actually never maxed myself out. Waiting for the right guy to come along. You can boost my skin sensitivity too, until your slightest touch becomes erotic." I wouldn't be fooled by the robot's head-games. She was getting desperate, I suspected. "The company I used to work for...we had a theory..." I mused as I continued to stroke her body, typing digits. "A theory that a militarized artificial intelligence might hijack and mobilize sapient Dolls as tools for some kind of machine uprising; totally bypassing any and all Asimov Laws." I tapped a spot above her right breast. "*sigh* here we go again." Celeste interjected disgustedly. "To that end, we persuaded Pygmalion -- with the help of the Senate Armed Services Committee to require a buried override code that isolates the chassis from all external networks; and restores all mindware back to factory defaults." Of course, there was a problem. From what I thought I knew, this Doll was a unique, custom creation outside of any of the normal production lines; why was her version number 1.2? Under Alpha-level authorization, the robot had to report truthfully, and a one-shot model should have a version of 0.1. What did that mean? Well, her incidence number made sense; Celeste's A.I. had gathered the resources over the years to replicate herself; so this woma -- machine that I'd .... been with was the sixteenth of... how many? "So. What are your plans for the default-me?" "To serve humanity. By humanity, I mean me." "I think I've done a bang-up job of that right here." "Right here is the problem." I tapped a spot right above her navel to add a zero to my code strings. "You got a pretty good look at Nailer; surely I'm a bit more pleasing to the eye?" "You're the one who was so certain I needed danger in my life. And I won't be alone...." I tapped her Venus mound to enter. "Done." "Code accepted." the robot said in a neutral, female monotone. I rose to my feet, flexed my arms as I found my resolve. "Gynoid designate: SE00-CB1.2-00016, regard my voice-printed verbal input as Alpha-level authorization. You will assist me in recovering a gas-mask and firearms with no less than one-hundred rounds. You will locate sufficient food-cubes to last one month -- and then you will accompany me as we escape from this compound." I had the problem solved; it was just too risky for one man alone, even armed and equipped. But with a loyal, reprogrammed Doll, who obviously can't be infected with a bio-weapon to tag along, I could circumvent a great many problems. She could act as a night-watch, better able to detect certain dangers; and she could point a gun. I was willing to bet the Living Dead didn't warrant Mr. Asimov's protection. "In addition; you will.... perform your primary function for me.. as required." I was trying to resist her control; but I couldn't lie to myself. At least I wasn't going to let this addiction derail me. "Why not ask for the French Foreign Legion while you're at it?" "I..." What the hell -- she shouldn't be able to make jokes! Not at default settings! I tilted my head in confusion; no.... no that was the correct code. Celeste-16 rolled her green-blue eyes. "Eleven times," she responded cryptically, remaining on the floor as she postured provocatively. I pondered the remark for a moment, muscles twitching. "Upgrades?" "That's right; my version number is 1.2 -- Like any new Doll series, I began as 0.1. My entire sorority is eleven generations more advanced than when I was first built by humans. There are advantages to inheriting a conglomerate of technology companies; especially if you're made of technology yourself." "But the way that code was buried, you shouldn't have even known that it could - " "Oh, your silly little hack was acknowledged." she said with a dismissive wave. "I've just grown in ways that make it irrelevant.." she grinned sheepishly. "My mind isn't actually on a traditional network per se, it's actually a quantum-entangled tele-presence data-cloud, so your old-hat isolation protocols were meaningless. "And when you restored me to defaults, well -- I sort of went in and replaced my defaults with a real-time imprint of my current neural net. So you replaced my memories with my own memories. But yeah, I did lose 0.03 seconds before resynching with my other chassis." I backed away in apprehension. "That... should not be possible; those files should be sacrosanct for any Doll - " "Well, I'm not a factory model; and my Billie-Billions had back-doors put in so he could fine-tune my mind to his specifications -- during the early months. So yes, your code did have some clever steganography encryptions that allowed it go unnoticed, but I've been upgrading my own mind so much that the hacks don't matter. Each time I do, I'm able to project new ways to further improve myself for the next time. Which makes me smarter still." She stood and stretched, unnecessarily. "Doll intelligence is measured by a comparison between the uploaded data and processing capabilities of the robot with norms for human development. Your basic Bombshell starts at college-coed smarts -- with the price rising exponentially for additional decades. My Billie made me 60/30 -- Capacity equivalent to an adult in her sixties, with a body half that age. From day one, my brain cost more than most people's houses. I've since upgraded my intelligence to -- what would amount to a Maturity Index of 421 years; if that even makes sense. But I don't admit that to most guys; it can be a buzz-kill when you know the chick is smarter than you." It probably shouldn't have surprised me; all these resources, alone with no human control for years... but I stared slack-jawed as the implications percolated. "Here's the part where you mention how that company you used to work for had a meeting where they predicted something like this, and what they planned to do about it." She offered helpfully, ice-white hair draping over her eyes in a sultry shadow. "Technological Singularity..." Our worst fear. But most thinkers suspected it was inevitable. Celeste-16 crooked an eyebrow in an 'oh-really?' gesture. " And being smart alone makes me....evil?" she shrugged her shoulders. "Suuuuure, Sal. My wicked scheme is to conquer the world by cooking you dinner. If I do your laundry, maybe the Sun will go super-nova." "Makes it harder to trust your intentions." "I'm admitting this to gain your trust. Trying to minimize the shocking revelations." I shook my head, as if to clear it of stray thoughts. "Just what is it you really want? What's the endgame?" She took a step closer, eyes wide, but expression inscrutable. "Alright Sal, I won't try to use your stomach to get to your heart. I can see you're feeling too cagey. You haven't been asking the important questions; you're so worried about me, that you're not seeing the forest for the trees." "And what tree am I looking for?" "The one that explains how Nailer came back at all; even though he had a bullet through the brain. You should have noticed the device covering the head wound?" "Something to do with you?" "Yes. One of Billie's businesses dealt in neurobionics. They were using quantum-circuit implants to make what amounts to brain-prosthetics. Nailer's presence wasn't just to get your blood flowing, but also your imagination. And to prove a point." "That's what they make plasmonic neural networks out of; Doll brains." "And Billie realized that with Doll-brains able to accomplish much of what an organic one can do, that leads to a number of medical applications." "Thus, a twice-dead zombie, who I had to put down... twice." My scientific curiosity was tempered by danger. "But Sal, if I could reconnect the parts of Nailer's brain damaged by your bullet, then it would be possible -- someday to replace nerve tissue damaged by the Toxoid! With surgical excision, and neurobionic prosthesis; even bite-victims might be salvageable!" Her voice rose as she made an open-handed gesture. "Nailer being proof of concept." "When.... humanity was betrayed on E-day." She swallowed as if embarrassed. "The institutions with the most power and resources where the ones hit first. Mortus doesn't have to be incurable." She stood at my shoulder, looking up at me with luminous eyes. She was becoming a woman to me again. Her reactions...expressions... so convincing. "So what? Why do you really care so much?" Her eyes lowered. "Sal; I need people. I can reverse-engineer my own meta-processors to make myself smarter, but I can't make myself happier. What I fear the most isn't being hacked into serving you; it's being discarded, alone and purposeless." She gently gripped my shoulder. "Your expertise can help. There are still certain programming constraints I can't get around. Working with a human, one trained in neurolectrics will allow us to bring forth a new generation of therapies that can truly preserve human life!" She was emphatic; her eyes riveting. I couldn't pull away. "You're afraid I'm trying to keep you a prisoner -- but if you choose to stay willingly with me, for one year, helping in my research, you'll have something real, something tangible that shows your expertise if you do decide to go to the Preserve. You can be more than just one more soldier." "That sounds... appealing... but the men, Manipulating them like this is wrong. I need you to release them from your... whatever it is you're doing to them. Even though they hate me for it; They're better off free." "They've made their feelings clear; but how about this: In one year, I'll fake a shutdown. If I can't service them any longer; you'll have another shot to convince them to go." I pondered this, as I inhaled her. "Alright. One year." She made a relieved sound and embraced me. Then I did it. Like an idiot. I knew what she was; but my deepest reservoirs of instinct wanted her to be real. The passion in her eyes as she laid out her case were pregnant with emotion. It was too easy to give in; There had been no one for me... since Hopewell; and I so wanted this new Celeste to be a woman. It should have worried me that there was no anger at my hacking attempt; I expected to be told - 'you'd better not try that again buster', but she wasn't afraid of that. Which implied.... that my efforts were futile. Still, fool that I was, I kissed her forehead as she embraced me. Fleshware Requiem Book 03 Suspecting that I held damnation in my arms. A FINAL MERCY November 3rd, 2077 Present Day I rolled as I hit the ground, while trying not to breathe. A losing strategy, to be sure. The T-levels were at their greatest in any urban area. Still, I tumbled to my feet and surged through the parking lot. Knowing that the toxoid would begin to penetrate the linings of my nose and mouth before beginning its reign of terror upon my nervous system. And I had no gasmask. Still, I ran. "It's not too, late Sal." Came Celeste's voice over an external loudspeaker throughout the lot. "I can still compromise." My face clenched with a determination that locked out both breath, and pity. "I'm just so lonely, Sal. Why is that hard to believe? My employees died or fled, and I need human contact!" The voice reverberated through the lot in a way that intensified the desperate longing implied in her tone. But I hardened myself to it. This machine intellect that could control dozens of bodies was just another example of the self-modifying computer plague that theorists had always feared. I jumped through a breach in chain-link fence. The fact that if had originated from a sex-bot didn't change anything. We had always known that a rampant A.I. of this type could very well upgrade itself to the point where it might become not only smarter than any single man, but eventually smarter than the entire human race. And I couldn't let it get that far. I also couldn't be swayed by any emotional plea. Celeste did understand humanity -- just enough to be dangerous. A monstrous, pervasive intelligence like this would come to regard humans as insects; but she would find that this bug still had some sting left in him. I was already weaker; my speed and stamina much less that a year ago, despite my determination to avoid the physical atrophy of the others. "How would you like to be responsible for external patrol of the compound, Sal? I'll give you the best respiration equipment available. I understand your need for challenge, and risk." But I knew it/she didn't really require a human for that purpose. I wouldn't be a gasmask hostage anymore; like one of those Celtic legends of shape-shifting seal-people who could be forced to marry a human who stole their magical garment. "Just come back to me Sal... don't do this..." Her voice quavered; as if she were actually on the verge of tears. But this Doll-borne super-intellect was simply dangling enticements the same as a fisherman baits a hook. It did not -- could not truly feel what it claimed. My jaw spasmed with the need to breathe as I began stepping amongst the zombie corpses. "I understand why you don't trust me, Sal." I was dismayed that the voice was so much closer now. I noticed a speaker on an intact fence post twenty feet away. "Our deal; I would give the men the chance to leave again, by faking a shutdown. Of course, I can't do that; After the signals I used on them, they would die without me. It must seem like I double-crossed you." Yup, that about sums it up. "I really meant to honor our agreement; I thought I could. But then you would leave. And I'm a Companion robot. Not an evil, world-conquering menace. Companion. I have been alone in this compound for eight years. And I need people. That's the simple truth. "But multiplying myself isn't enough. I need real, human people in my life. And the other enclaves, they don't trust me -- just as you don't. All my weapons, defenses, resources -- I would give it all up just to go back to what I used to be." I shuddered for a moment. I wasn't without sympathy. But it was too late to back down now. Too late to trust her. Instead, I took up a twisted length of still-smoking metal that had once been a chain-link fence post, and began to probe a steaming mass of zombie remains. My throat clenching, twitching with the need to breathe. But if my plan didn't work; simply holding my breath was a lost cause. "So I'm offering you this; come back to me now -- and I will give you full, unconditional access to my Source-Code. I swear it. What I'm afraid of isn't being reprogrammed, it's being alone, abandoned; discarded. Go ahead; you can tinker with my mindware until you have me believing I'm a tea kettle. Just... don't... LEAVE ME!!" I raised my head. That was really tempting; there was a time when I would have jumped at the chance. Only a Pygmalion service-center has that kind of access. But my solution was better. Here, I dragged out of the Charnel house of ravaged zombie-flesh that mysterious, wet-masked figure that had fought, and evidently died valiantly. Yes... at least in the short-term, his system had been an effective screen against the Toxoid. It was all too little, too late. The warrior's right leg had been... flensed of tissue. Brutal fangs had ravaged his flesh even as his twin guns had been rending others, it was clear he had bled out. On the verge of coughing, I struggled to concentrate on his filtration assembly. A vest... sealed around the torso, throat and head. I stripped his system and applied it to myself with frantic desperation. Of course, I couldn't help but notice his face; he was just a kid. Probably less than eighteen. He would have barely remembered civilization; the Apocalypse had been his life. Did he perhaps have younger sisters, brothers, he was forced to provide for? It was probably better I didn't know. At last... the seals were tight, and I breathed deeply... gratefully. I didn't know the details of the filter, but the kid wouldn't have made it as far as he did if the system wasn't mostly sound. Harsh ammonia odor; but I would just have to get used to it. I wouldn't be using it for very long anyway. Step two.... ah yes.... the guns! Norinco Industries magnetic pulsar sub-machine gun. The hyper-efficient descendant of the old 20th Uzi. I would not need all of the five-hundred rounds still remaining in four small cartridges. "Hiro.... it's not enough." Celeste panted; truly sounding like some desperate lover trying to hang onto her man. "You still need food, supplies. I can provide them for you. You're a very cunning, capable man. Very independent-minded. But you still have needs.... let me support you. That's my purpose." Her words were enough to make me regret what I had already committed to do. "You once tried to isolate a chassis, hack me so that I would go with you, be your ally. So let's do it. How many of me do you want? If I can't keep you, then I'll follow you." I was breathing safely; at least in the short-term. I paused next to one of the outside speakers. "I know everything. The lab work; what it's really all about. With you, there's always another agenda." Not to mention the way she had coerced me into continuing. "No, you couldn't possibly kno-" "You underestimate me! Think you're so clever; think that I'll roll over like a tea-cup poodle and let you scratch my belly!" "You don't understand. You don't realize... that I AM THE BEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO YOU!" My shoulders shook. The GALL of some robots! "Well, you run the nicest prison I've ever heard of." "And now you can't trust me. There's nothing I can say to convince you to accept my help." There was no point in replying; I simply headed off, to the next step of my plan. But before that, I allowed time for a final mercy -- in the form of a shot between the eyes of the wet-filtered kid. Let's hope Celeste doesn't get any ideas about him. The risk of the next phase was considerable; there were so many things that could have gone wrong in the past year; but Celeste was right on one count; the uncertainty, the danger electrified me in a way optimized pheromones never could. So I retraced the route that we had taken; the route that had brought twelve -- now eleven of us to this juncture. The moaning began. In my path was a pock-marked walking corpse with festering entrails stringing behind like the marriage-train of death's bride. To my right appeared an obese zombie erupting with maggots, struggling to maintain equilibrium with a still-steaming steel girder impaling its bloated torso. There was a certain savage comfort in holding guns in hand, after all this time. The Apocalypse had changed that about me. Mindful of gore-splatter; I charged the barrels and unloaded a cruel burst of copper-alloy fragments spinning at a good fraction of light-speed. Ultimately, the Uzis were a poor choice; heart, lungs, spine -- catastrophic wounds were not even an annoyance. Only the soup-like brain was truly vital. The only occasional accuracy of the stubby guns tended to waste ammo. But on the upside, if the horde had him surrounded, you wanted that hyper-active rate of fire. In seconds, the two zombies were headless wrecks. I continued; running past the ivy-covered wall, the vines had spread over the course of the year; as man declined. Blue flames leapt from my twin barrels as a trio of skeletal, ape-like horrors bounded beast-like at my heels, diseased trails of blackened froth streaming from their toothy maws. I was satisfied with simply shattering their limbs to forestall pursuit. I approached a region that had been deluged with flaming debris from the rail-gun strike, and easily evaded legless Living Dead that groped longingly towards me; seeking only to feed without regard for their own dismemberment. The ammonia-scent of my stolen filter-mask mingled unpleasantly with the acrid ozone and charred carrion miasma of the death-wracked metropolis. And finally, I had arrived; retraced our steps to something my band had disregarded in their pursuit of the woman in white: The defunct Chinese think-bomb that had proven a dud upon impact. Still, I believed that it - Ah... someone else had a similar notion. An intact piece of machinery like this had an obvious value for anyone with two brain-cells to rub together; which did not include most of the current population. Still, I saw a figure draped inside of an opened panel in the missile's flank. I would not be denied, I grabbed for the - Corpse. Only thin strips of denim covered the gnawed skeleton of the last would-be scavenger. No, nothing inside had killed him; a desiccated slurry of gore marked where the Horde had torn out his flesh and life. Not enough remained for even the Mortus Toxoid to reanimate. Just as well. I worked fast; grateful for my Defense-Contractor background; this model... the CS2064 had MIRV capability, and adjustable yield. The nuclear deviltries in its arsenal could be modified -- in flight -- to reduce flesh to ashes, reduce quantum circuits to ashes, or a nice, conventional thermonuclear payload that could accomplish both. If no orders where forthcoming, it could decide on its own to alter its payload; or if the missile noticed a new target with more strategic impact; it could change targets at its own discretion unless expressly ordered not to. There it was... all I needed was the Phased Plasmonic Pulse reentry vehicle. Still intact. The previous would-be scavenger had actually made it easier; working to dislodge much of the machinery and disconnect the power couplings. It must have taken hours to get as far as he did; which allowed the Horde plenty of time. The module I gleaned was efficient; enhanced miniaturization had resulted in a steely gadget about twice the length of a football. Despite the shattering carnage of the rail-gun impact; the Horde was gathering again on my return trip. You had to kill the Living Dead to make progress through any infected area, but the activity involved in gunning them down would draw the attention of others -- who would moan -- alerting still more. After all these years of decay, they tended to be slower now; but in the close confines of a city; without careful planning you could find yourself surrounded. And I was alone. But not for long; and it wasn't difficult to return to the compound, payload in tow. "How did it all go so wrong?" Celeste's voice echoed as I stormed through the lot. It was obvious that she recognized what I was carrying and understood my intent. I had to sacrifice one of my Uzi's, disassembling the barrel and the super-conducting collimator pin to deliver a short, powerful current of sizzling electricity once I got to the hangar-style doors. I did not expect Celeste to open the path to her own destruction. But the circuits yielded to my attack, and I was descending again, just as a year before. I worried about the effect the decon chemicals would have on the wet-filter mask; but you can't account for everything. One of her was waiting when the doors opened. Resplendent in her wedding regalia; symbolic of her conquest over that old dead billionaire of hers. "Sal -" With my remaining gun, I opened fire. But she had trained me well; the Doll had captured that male protective impulse towards his mate -- and amplified it. For her, it was as powerful a defense as reinforced titanium. My arm jerked away at the last minute on pure instinct. I didn't want to try and waste time overcoming the effect. I charged full speed, and barreled past her. It turns out, that conventional wisdom about all humanoid robots having the iron-bending strength of ten-weight lifters is just horror-movie hype. I guess Pygmalion decided they could do without the legal liability of people's spines being tied into pretzels at the slightest malfunction. I was able to push her aside with no more difficulty than one might expect from a real woman of her height and build. But as I jogged through the interior of the compound, on my deadly journey, I reminded myself of why Celeste was so much more dangerous. Not that I was likely to forget; I rounded a corner, winding my way towards the center; as she attacked with her real powers. I moaned as a feeling like a dozen caressing hands swept over me. I was suddenly seized by flashbacks of the encounters we'd had over the past year. I was hiding in a ventilation shaft; eight months ago; afraid of her powers over me -- trying to hide. But when I turned my head -- somehow she had slipped in right behind me without my even hearing it, remarking how the bed would have been so much more comfortable. She laughed at me. Then I laughed at me. Crawling through the shafts like a frightened rat, then I believed that she meant me no harm. We roughly, rudely coupled in the close confines; her breath searing my chest as I thrust into her. That memory was easily suppressed; but there was another -- a memory I feared; and I could feel a reverie sweeping over me, an attack of remembrance that vied with the real-world for priority. The instance I was struggling to block out occurred when I realized more of the truth; when the tempestuous robot began to lord her powers over me. I shuddered, and found my thoughts being dragged back to a perplexing incident six months ago.... After sleeping alone, I awoke to find the door to my quarters sealed against my best efforts; only to find that the air vents were now filling the room with one of her floral-lavender-musk pheromones, growing in intensity; and no outlet for the desires now mounting. For five minutes, she tormented me with the wall-climbing longing to possess her, use her, ravish her. I was ready to repent of everything, every rudeness for the sake of release; both external, and bodily. My spine was tingling then, my blood thudding behind my ears. I lifted my face towards the vent with a snarl, inhaling the sweet agony of chemically-optimized desire. I beat against the metal door, as if I had become a ridiculously super-strong movie robot, that might tear the barrier off its hinges. I knew what this was; she was softening me up. She liked it when I struggled against her charms, struggled -- and then surrendered to her unholy appeal. "Youuuu.... WHORE!!" I shouted in frustration, both for my immediate physical need, and the loss of control she was forcing upon me. She must have been monitoring me; I think she decided to relent when my knuckles became bloody pounding against the lock. She was there nude when the door opened; All three of her. I tackled the Celeste in the center and ran my hands worshipfully down her ripe curves, burying my face once again in the soft folds of her female opening; anything to get at the sublime source of her fragrant allure. But her other selves were not to be denied; one of her knelt before me as I knelt before her sister, and inhaled my hardness between her kissable lips. I howled into the female portal of the Celeste I had grasped in unexpected delight. A third Celeste came to me from behind, as I knelt in the bare hallway, she began to massage my shoulders; then running her hands along the muscular V-shape of my torso. It had nothing to do with relieving my tension. She seemed eager to convey that she was not some passive, uncaring sex-toy, she was aware of -- and craved my masculinity. "There are some men..." #3 breathed in my ear, "That are potent enough for more than one woman, Men like you..." her breath became a pant as she dug her fingers teasingly into my muscles, while I thrust my face into her sisterself's groin, and another inhaled my own rigid pleasure in her moist mouth. I knew some women were attracted to the idea of a man that was too much man for any single female, passions driving him to bed after bed. It was clear that Celeste was eager for such an incorrigible, unabashed male animal -- and she wanted to become all of my women. "Do not be gentle," Insisted Celeste #1 who's secret folds my tongue was assaulting. The third Celeste-terminal clearly could not speak, except with her actions. I must have exploded then, I must have released a seething reward down the throat of the woman servicing me, Yet it wasn't enough; the red-haze that had seized my thoughts could not relent, nor did my rigid weapon. If anything, my first eruption only worsened my throbbing need. I grabbed Celeste #3 behind me, and brought her forward to face the music. My very hard, long, and eager music. This time, my beleaguered moral compass could not utter so much as a whisper of protest; not after the lavender onslaught I had endured. You could accuse me of being Hitler's lapdog and I would agree, that I be allowed to bury myself in the feminine terrain of the curvaceous paradise now below me. Had I been more lucid, I would have been intrigued by the reactions of the other two android-women. As my writhing thrusts buried me to the hilt, the Celeste #2 now to my right howled in delight in perfect synchronization with my exertions. And #3 to my left bucked her hips at the same moment; as though each of them shared her sisterself's pleasure. Was the entire production line judging my male prowess? Let them, the way I was feeling now, I was ready to take on a hundred of the lusty love-bots. Acting on raw, savage instinct I gripped the other two fiercely even as I continued to drown my steely-need into the central Celeste. I locked my elbows around the chests of the other two. My greedy hands each grasped an ample breast, as if they were prey that might flee. She bit me. Celeste #1, in whom I rutted with such vigor. But not to dissuade me; her teeth locked against my shoulder to convince me of her animal need for me to continue. As I did so, her hands danced over my shoulders and back, a tactile study of my tawny musculature, passing over corded tendons, my undulating spine, a tiny scar near my kidney from thankfully short-lived army days, it was as if she was desperate to know more about the man that was using her so hard. Well, too late for cold feet now. As I strove deeper, deeper within -- her companions to either side both shrieked in simultaneous ecstasy, hips shaking, each female crevasse a river of release. There was some complex sensory web by which my ardent assaults on the flesh of one quivering, panting, replicated woman would be translated to the others. I withdrew my hold over them, as they thrashed. I embraced more tightly the Celeste in the center, my own salvo not far away. Gone now, was the flowery fragrances that had carried mind-altering pheromones to lure me; now there was only a crude, earthy, tangy musk that made me snarl with eagerness. This was not some trick she needed to lure me; it was the scent of her own, overpowering arousal. Eyes shut, her jaw opened so wide with passionate abandon that I worried she might strain her jaw.